


Pas de Quatre

by zelda_zee



Category: The Musketeers (2014), d'Artagnan Romances (Three Musketeers Series) - All Media Types
Genre: D'Artagnan POV, Foursome - M/M/M/M, M/M, Multi, Period-Typical Homophobia, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-11
Updated: 2015-03-11
Packaged: 2018-03-16 14:19:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 24,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3491519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zelda_zee/pseuds/zelda_zee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aramis has a plan. But, as they will, things go awry.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pas de Quatre

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was written in S1, and finished and betaed in S2. There's a bit of it at the end that is jossed now, but hopefully that won't affect how it reads.
> 
> Much gratitude to [breathtaken](http://archiveofourown.org/users/breathtaken/pseuds/breathtaken) who kindly offered to beta without even knowing me and was then very patient and encouraging as I delayed and dithered.

D’Artagnan leans back against the rough wood of the tavern wall and surveys the dark, dingy and decidedly dissolute interior of their favorite drinking establishment. Wherever he looks, his fellows are engaged in inebriated and animated conversation, laughing, shouting, drinking, gaming and energetically flirting with the barmaids. Beside him, Aramis and Porthos are absorbed in a raucous game of dice which Porthos appears to be winning, which is not surprising, as he is an incorrigible and unapologetic cheat.

D’Artagnan’s eyes come to rest on the one still, silent place in the room, a solitary man seated in a dim corner. He has a bottle of wine and a single glass on the table before him, resting beside a pair of leather gloves. His face is sunk in shadow, but d’Artagnan does not need to be able to see his friend’s countenance to know the expression he wears. On nights like tonight, when Athos eschews the company of his compatriots to drink alone, his face is hard as stone, his eyes flat and empty.

Beside him, Porthos and Aramis carry on as if unaware of Athos’ mood, although d’Artagnan knows that is not the case. When Porthos rises to fetch another drink, d’Artagnan takes the opportunity to ask Aramis, his voice low enough so as not to be heard over the din around them, “How does he seem to you?” 

Aramis looks askance and d’Artagnan nods at Athos. “Ah,” Aramis says. “You must know by now that our friend Athos is not a happy man.” He pauses, tilting his head in thought. “When Porthos and I first met him, he was very badly off. Every night, the same – drinking himself into a stupor and the two of us carrying him home to bed. He’s been doing better, but now I don’t know. He appears to be well on his way to a downhill slide.”

“Is there nothing we can do?”

Aramis looks at him sideways, arching a brow. “There is nothing Porthos and I can do for him. _We_ do not have that power.” He studies Athos a moment, stroking his beard, then sighs in apparent frustration. 

“You and Porthos do not?” d’Artagnan asks. “What do you mean by that?”

Aramis turns back to him. “We do not, but…”

“But?” d’Artagnan prompts.

“But.” Aramis extends his index finger and touches d’Artagnan lightly on the tip of his nose. “You. Do.”

D’Artagnan frowns and knocks Aramis’ hand away. “I don’t see why I should be in any better position to lighten Athos’ mood than you or Porthos,” he protests. “You should be better at it, in fact, as you’ve known him longer.”

“We have,” admits Aramis. “But that is immaterial. It is not I, nor is it Porthos, whom he wants.”

D’Artagnan rears back, certain he must have misheard. “ _Wants_? What the devil do you mean by that?”

Aramis draws d’Artagnan close again with a companionable arm around the shoulder, leaning in closely. “It’s a simple enough word, d’Artagnan. Wants for himself. Wants to be with. Wants to hold.” He turns, whispering into d’Artagnan’s ear. “Wants to love.”

“My God, Aramis! You cannot say such things." He glances quickly around to be sure Aramis has not been overheard. "Do you have a death wish? You must not speak of such things!" "I must not – and yet I do." Seeing the worry on d'Artagnan's face he says reassuringly, "No one can hear us. It is perfectly safe." It is true that the din is such that it is nearly impossible to hear what the person sitting right beside you is saying, let alone the person at the next table, and none of the other patrons are paying them the slightest attention, engaged as they are in their own conversations and arguments and clumsy seductions. "You should not speak that way about Athos.” D’Artagnan glances over, but Athos appears to have dozed off, his chin sunk onto his chest, the night of heavy drinking conquering even his impressive tolerance for alcohol.

“I only state what I know to be the truth.” Aramis counters smoothly. He looks to d’Artagnan as if he could be sharing a bit of court gossip, or discussing the weather, so unruffled is his demeanor. D’Artagnan, on the other hand, feels considerably ruffled. “I do not consider it a slur, or something unspeakable, when a man wants the way Athos wants you. And especially not when that want is combined with the kind of high regard in which he holds you.”

D’Artagnan turns back to Aramis, searching his face for any hint of humor or teasing and finding none. “That is no light thing to accuse someone of, Aramis,” he says uncertainly. He loves Aramis, but d’Artagnan has learned that he often holds odd opinions even on common matters. 

“I do not accuse where I find no fault.” Aramis snugs d’Artagnan in tightly to his body, and although d’Artagnan normally welcomes the physical expressions of Aramis’ affectionate nature, he almost wishes in this moment that he would keep his distance. He’s warm and pleasantly solid where his body touches d’Artagnan’s and he smells of wine and sweat and leather and the cologne that it is his habit to wear in his hours of leisure, and there is something about his scent and the feel of him so close that is uncomfortably distracting and confusing, especially given the topic of their conversation. 

“Think on it, my friend,” Aramis says quietly, patting d’Artagnan’s chest, and then leaving his hand there, so d’Artagnan can feel his heart beating hard against Aramis’ palm. “Try to think on it not as a terrible or shameful thing, but as something that could be very sweet and that can be of great benefit to both of you.” 

Aramis looks up then and smiles widely, and d’Artagnan follows the direction of his gaze to see that Porthos has returned in the company of several of their fellow Musketeers. “We will speak more about this later,” Aramis says quietly, then turns to Porthos, raising his voice. “I see you’ve found some other poor fools who want to give you their money.”

Porthos smiles, picking up the dice. “Don’t listen to him, my friends. So I had a bit of luck, and Aramis here lost a livre or two. What are the chances my luck will hold all night?”

“Pretty damn good when the dice are weighted in your favor,” Aramis mutters, but only loud enough for d’Artagnan to hear him.

~*~

 _Wants for himself, wants to be with, wants to hold. Wants to love._ Aramis’ words echo inside d’Artagnan’s head as he walks home in the early hours of the morning, weaving only slightly. 

D’Artagnan has an inkling of what Aramis means, hazy knowledge gleaned from jokes and insinuations he’s heard over the years, directed at the kind of effete fellow who makes other men uncomfortable. Usually they are slender, pale, quiet boys, with odd mannerisms and no interest in the kind of things that interested the vast majority of men of d’Artagnan’s acquaintance – namely fighting, drinking, gaming, women, and when he was back home in Gascony, farming. 

Athos is nothing like those unfortunate boys. D’Artagnan cannot help idolizing Athos just a little, though he tries his best to guard against this tendency. But the reason he finds it so difficult is that in many ways Athos is just the kind of man d’Artagnan aspires to be. 

And that kind of man could not possibly want a man. Not as he would want a woman. 

Could he?

D’Artagnan thinks not. Athos is married, after all. He had clearly once been very much in love with a woman – and perhaps is still. If he had once loved Milady de Winter with as much fervor as he hates her now, he must have loved her very deeply indeed.

D’Artagnan tries to imagine wanting a man, but the images that come to mind are not ones that he can allow himself to contemplate. He tries to imagine wanting Athos, thinking that perhaps it would be easier to imagine a friend in that way than some faceless stranger. His mind works at the edges of that idea, but shies from the details like a skittish horse from the hand of a stranger. What would one man even do with another? Offer sweet words as he would to a woman? Woo him with flattery and flirtation? Try to kiss him? Surely not. D’Artagnan knows the words for what that kind of man does, even if he does not understand the details – sodomy, buggery. They are ugly words and not ones he can contemplate without revulsion.

No, Aramis must have meant something else. Athos wants d’Artagnan to do something for him, or perhaps it would be better to say, wants something _from_ him. But neither sounds quite right somehow. Perhaps Athos wants a favor from d’Artagnan, something neither Aramis nor Porthos can provide. But he cannot imagine what such a favor can be.

Aramis’ words have been quite unequivocal. The word “love” has been used. One or the other of the four of them might occasionally refer to the love they bear each other, and in that context it means nothing more than the brotherly affection they share that has prompted Athos, Aramis and Porthos to be dubbed The Inseparables by their comrades, a title recently extended to include d’Artagnan.

But d’Artagnan is quite certain that is not the extent of the love to which Aramis referred, not when he prefaced it with those other distressing assertions.

He must question Aramis more closely, if only to settle the turmoil his words have induced in d’Artagnan’s mind, and resolves to do so at the earliest opportunity.

~*~

What does that mean, _whom he wants_? d’Artagnan had wondered again at an inopportune moment, and thus finds himself sprawled on his back and gasping for air on the hard dirt of the practice yard barely a moment after he and Athos cross swords. His sparring sword had been neatly caught by Aramis as it flew out of d’Artagnan’s grasp, sailing through the air to where he and Porthos stand on the sidelines, laughing at him. Athos, smiling down at him, shakes his head as d’Artagnan, struggling to draw a full breath, manages a pained smile.

It serves him right for letting himself be distracted.

“Focus, my friend,” Athos chides, grasping d’Artagnan’s hand and pulling him to his feet. “I suggest you make an effort to clear your mind before our next engagement.”

D’Artagnan, red-faced, makes way for Porthos, who is up next. He and Athos are awkward adversaries – Porthos with his undisciplined, brawling approach contrasted to Athos’ near-perfect classical technique. Athos is always trying to refine Porthos’ style, but the fact is that while Porthos’ methods may not be pretty, even Athos must admit that they are remarkably effective. Several times he almost gets the better of Athos, overwhelming him with sheer strength and his unabashedly gleeful willingness to disregard the rules of fair play.

“Oh, well done!” Aramis calls, as Porthos feints right then brings his heel down on Athos’ instep. Athos stumbles and Porthos neatly sweeps his feet out from under him, bringing Athos down on his rear, and that would have been the end of it if Porthos had not unwisely turned toward Aramis and d’Artagnan to observe their reactions. In the instant his attention is diverted Athos is on his feet again, sword in hand. Porthos whirls to meet him and the fight is re-joined.

D’Artagnan, who is again managing to breathe normally, steels himself. He’s been waiting for a moment alone with Aramis so he can question him further about his strange comments from two nights before. Now is his chance, yet it’s damnably difficult to find the right words.

“About the other night,” he begins.

“Hmm?” Aramis says, his eyes on Athos and Porthos, now engaged in what appears to be something closer to wrestling than fencing. 

“What you said about Athos. At the tavern.”

“Porthos, you lug, that sword isn’t a club! What do you mean beating him over the head with it?” Aramis calls.

“I’m trying,” Porthos replies, continuing to rain blows on Athos with the flat of his blade, “to beat some sense into him!”

“Ha! A worthy effort, but destined to fail, I’m afraid. He is quite beyond help!”

“Aramis,” d’Artagnan hisses.

“My apologies. You were saying?”

“What you said about Athos at the tavern. About him… you know.”

Aramis raises his eyebrows, waving his hand in a little _go on_ gesture.

D’Artagnan leans close and whispers in his ear. “You said that he, er. That he. Wants. Um. Me.”

Aramis gives him an impatient look. “Yes, I said that.”

“Well, what did you mean by it?”

“What did I mean? What do you think I meant? I meant what I said, nothing more, nothing less.”

Aramis is watching him with a strange look on his face, as if he can’t decide whether or not d’Artagnan is mentally deficient. But he is serious and determined, and so he forges on despite the heat in his face and the alarming way his heart has sped its beating.

“But Athos is – that is, I know what that means when speaking of a woman. I know what wanting a woman is, of course. But Athos is a man and – and I am a man, and I just – I don’t know how you can speak of such a thing in relation to him. And to me,” he adds hastily. 

“Oh, my dear boy,” Aramis says, giving him an assessing look. “Can you truly be so abysmally naïve?” He smiles and pats d’Artagnan on the cheek. “Yes, it appears that you can. How utterly charming. Well then, I suppose a little education is in order.”

“Education?”

“Indeed, but this is not the place to speak of it. Come to my rooms tonight after supper and we will talk.”

As that has to content him for the time being, d’Artagnan turns his attention back to the two combatants in the yard, resolving to keep his mind on his work for the rest of the day and have no such lapses of concentration as had led to his earlier embarrassingly short engagement. Or, at least, he will make the attempt.

~*~

D’Artagnan dallies after supper that evening, not wishing to appear over-eager by arriving at Aramis’ rooms at too early an hour. Once it is fully dark he judges it late enough, and follows the route by habit, his attention wholly taken up by the thoughts whirling through his mind. So absorbed is he that he nearly steps into the path of a trundling cart, and it is only the driver’s shout that alerts him to jump out of the way before he is trampled by the oncoming horses.

Aramis welcomes him, takes his coat, shows him to a seat, pours him a glass of wine, stokes the fire, all the while chattering amicably about the occurrences of the day, occurrences with which d’Artagnan is already quite familiar, having spent the better part of it in Aramis’ company.

D’Artagnan, mindful of his manners, holds his tongue, anxious as he is to get to the real reason he’s there. Aramis finally cuts himself off in the middle of a humorous reminiscence of Athos’ and Porthos’ brawl from that afternoon to say, “Well, I see that your mind is elsewhere, my dear d’Artagnan. What is it that occupies your thoughts?”

“I apologize,” d’Artagnan says, chagrined. “Please continue.”

“No, never mind.” Aramis waves a dismissive hand. “I invited you here with the promise to discuss things that are best spoken of behind a locked door in the dark of night. Things about which you are most curious, if I am not mistaken.”

“I suppose I am curious,” d’Artagnan admits. “What you said – I do not know what you meant, Aramis. That is,” he hastens to add, “I am not wholly ignorant. I do know of the – of the type of relations – of which you spoke. But I don’t understand how you can possibly think that Athos – or that I – or that Athos and I–” 

“Don’t you?” Aramis asks with a little smile. “I wonder. I think you understand more than you admit – perhaps even to yourself.”

D’Artagnan feels this is unfair. If he won’t admit something to himself, how is he to know whether or not he knows it? He’s fairly certain he would know if he knows something or not. Knowing something and not knowing you know it would be pointless, after all.

“I think you promised to educate me,” d’Artagnan reminds him.

Aramis tops off their glasses from the bottle sitting on the table. “So I did. And I will.” He takes a sip of wine, then says with uncharacteristic solemnity, “I hope I can trust to your discretion. This is, after all, a dangerous topic.” 

“You know that I will never betray your confidence.”

“I know that, I do. But while I spoke lightly before, men have died because of what we are about to speak of, d’Artagnan. Be certain that you want to hear. Be sure that you can promise to always, always be discreet.”

“I promise, Aramis. I swear.”

Aramis folds his hands on the table and meets d’Artagnan’s eyes. “Very well. What do you know of intimate relations between men?”

D’Artagnan blinks at him. “I – I –” he stammers. 

“You know something, I think.”

“Only a little,” d’Artagnan manages, face burning, his voice sunk almost to a whisper. “Some men are so inclined, I know that. It is illegal and immoral, I know that too. A man like Athos would never – he is not that kind of man, Aramis. I am certain of it. He has too much honor.”

“Athos is not short on honor, that is most assuredly true. Though honor is cold consolation in matters of the heart.”

“I don’t believe Athos would allow such feelings. I cannot imagine that he would ever…” D’Artagnan remembers the times he has caught Athos watching him when he thought d’Artagnan wasn’t looking. “No, he would never permit himself to –” But there have also been occasions, especially when Athos was drunk, when he had seemed almost to be yearning, the sadness and longing in his countenance plain to see in his inebriated, and therefore less guarded, state. “It is impossible that he should feel anything like...” The memory surfaces of an evening when d’Artagnan had drunk too much and Athos had convinced him to stop the night at his room at the garrison and the two of them had shared Athos’ small cot, still in their shirts and breeches. It had felt very natural to have Athos spooned behind him, and d’Artagnan hadn’t given it a thought, had simply fallen asleep there, warm enough beneath the single blanket with the mingled heat from their bodies. But as d’Artagnan drifted into sleep, he had dreamt that he felt Athos’ mouth against the back of his neck, and his voice whispering hoarsely, _My sweet boy, my dear, sweet boy._

D’Artagnan’s denials die on his tongue, and he stares at Aramis.

“Ah,” Aramis says. “You see now what I have seen for months. The man is besotted with you, d’Artagnan.” He leans forward. “The question now is, what do we do about it?”

“Do?”

“We can’t just allow things to go on as they are! He is sunk in melancholy and eating himself up from the inside. God knows, he has always been this way to some extent, but now, with you, it worsens. Plus,” Aramis adds, with a grimace, “Porthos and I are sick of watching him moon over you. I suspect he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it, which makes it all the more irritating.”

“He doesn’t ‘moon’ over me,” d’Artagnan protests, but Aramis ignores him.

“I suppose the next logical question is, what are your feelings in the matter?” Aramis asks.

“What do you mean by that?” D’Artagnan feels ever more thrown off balance by the direction of the conversation. True, he has been burning to speak of it, but all the same, Aramis’ questions are too intimate, and the matter-of-fact way in which he speaks of such a taboo subject is quite alarming.

“Don’t play dumb, d’Artagnan. Do you have feelings for the man or not? You’ve had this thing going on with dear Mme. Bonacieux recently. I simply want to ascertain whether your inclinations lie wholly with the fair sex or whether you would enjoy some variety in matters of love.”

“Constance and I are – that is in the past,” d’Artagnan says stiffly. “She is married, and has decided that her affections belong to her husband. Quite rightly, of course.”

“Of course,” Aramis murmurs.

“As to the other – I do not know.”

“You don’t know? How can you not know?”

“I have never thought on it, Aramis! It is not the kind of thing one thinks of!”

Aramis raises his eyebrows, observing d’Artagnan as if he was some type of creature he had never seen before. “Of course it is the kind of thing one thinks of! I can’t believe you have never before questioned your preferences.”

D’Artagnan shakes his head. He stares at his wine glass rather than looking at Aramis, his mind full of the same vague, uninformed thoughts about what might constitute intimacy between men that have plagued him ever since Aramis brought the subject up days ago, and that he has tried unsuccessfully since then to quell.

He starts when Aramis touches his arm.

“May I?”

“What?” 

“If I may propose an experiment?” Aramis smiles a little. He watches d’Artagnan with a strange look in his eye, as if he is searching for something that lies just beneath the surface of his skin.

“An experiment? Yes, I suppose so.” 

Aramis gets to his feet. “Stand, please.” He gestures for d’Artagnan to rise.

D’Artagnan stands uncertainly, feeling self-conscious as he waits to see what Aramis will do. Aramis steps very close, far too close for his intention to be mistaken. D’Artagnan nearly takes a step back, but forces himself to hold fast. _This is for your own good_ , he reminds himself. _Aramis is only trying to help_.

He flinches when Aramis touches him, sliding his fingertips along d’Artagnan’s cheekbone. 

“Easy,” Aramis soothes. “This is just a test, nothing more. It means nothing.” 

D’Artagnan’s heart has kicked up, pounding in his chest like the hoof beats of a galloping horse. Heat envelops him, sweat blooming on his skin.

“We’ll try this,” Aramis says, “and if it doesn’t work, tell me to stop and we’ll forget it ever happened.”

His hand cradles the back of d’Artagnan’s head and draws him slowly, slowly close. It seems to take forever, as d’Artagnan considers a multitude of possible ramifications of his actions and the many, many excellent arguments for stopping what is about to happen from happening.

And then Aramis tilts his face up and his lips touch d’Artagnan’s.

 _Oh God_ , d’Artagnan thinks. He squeezes his eyes tightly shut, expecting something terrible to happen. He is kissing a man. Surely God will strike him dead. He waits to feel disgusted or nauseated or offended, then waits some more.

Instead, there are just Aramis’ lips, warm and dry and soft, pressed gently to his. The prickling of his beard is strange but not unpleasantly so, even if it does make it impossible for d’Artagnan to pretend he is kissing a girl. And perhaps he doesn’t even wish to pretend he is kissing a girl. In fact, he thinks that he doesn’t wish to pretend he is kissing anyone but Aramis, who is, after all, his dear companion, and quite undeniably a fine looking fellow, and who is doing this solely for d’Artagnan’s benefit, after all. 

Aramis, not surprisingly, is as skilled in the art of seduction as he is at most things, thinks d’Artagnan dazedly, as Aramis deepens the kiss, coaxing d’Artagnan’s lips apart and swiping them teasingly with his tongue. Despite Aramis’ gentleness, it is not a feminine kiss. There is no yielding in it. There is no question of who is taking the lead here. Aramis is kissing _him_ , not the other way around, and that is even stranger than the feeling of Aramis’ beard against his skin. 

Strange, but also good. It makes him yearn for more in a hot, needy way that is unfamiliar and embarrassing, but that does not stop him from pulling Aramis closer and opening to him, welcoming everything that Aramis gives him, mouth and tongue and his hands on d’Artagnan’s body, on his back and in his hair and traveling down to his hips.

He isn’t thinking about the strangeness of kissing a man anymore or wondering whether he is committing some grievous sin, and he certainly isn’t wishing Aramis is a girl. All he’s thinking is that it feels good; it feels right and natural, like something he’s been missing all his life and he hadn’t even known it until now.

Aramis draws back and studies him. D’Artagnan stares into Aramis’ eyes, shocked by the intensity of the experience and all the conflicting emotions stirring in his breast. 

“You find it pleasing, then?” Aramis asks.

“You kiss very well,” d’Artagnan says breathlessly.

Aramis smiles. “I should hope so. I have had a _lot_ of practice.”

 _Kiss me again_ , d’Artagnan wants to implore, but Aramis has said this is only an “experiment”, and he doesn’t want to push for more than Aramis will freely give. Maybe Aramis can read it in his expression anyway, because his lips are on d’Artagnan’s again and it’s just as good as before. D’Artagnan sighs and relaxes into Aramis’ embrace, angling his head so that they fit together better, so they can kiss more deeply. His arms are around Aramis’ shoulders and Aramis has one hand cradling d’Artagnan’s head, holding him just where he wants him. His kiss is masterful and skilled and impossible to resist and it takes d’Artagnan’s breath away, takes him apart until he cannot think, until all he can do is respond and feel and moan shamelessly into Aramis’ mouth.

That’s when Aramis draws back and gently lets him go, steadying him with a hand on his waist before taking a step away. D’Artagnan nearly stumbles even so, staring at Aramis with glazed incomprehension before reaching for him again.

“No,” Aramis says firmly, moving beyond d’Artagnan’s reach. “No, we really must stop now.” He’s breathing fast, his face flushed, his hair disheveled. The laces at his shirtfront have come undone (did I do that? d’Artagnan wonders) and it gapes open. His eyes are shining and dark, a little wild, a little desperate. He looks _desirable_ , d’Artagnan thinks. _Beddable_. 

And just like that, he understands.

“My purpose was to prove or disprove a theory – I think we can agree that it has been proven most conclusively.” Aramis chuckles breathlessly, raking a hand through his hair. “Continuing in this manner, tempting as it is, would be unwise.” He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, watching D’Artagnan hotly. “But this is not the end of it, my dear. You may depend upon that. You and I now have some unfinished business that, sooner or later, will need attending.”

For his part, d’Artagnan feels quite stupidly incapable of sensible speech, so he just nods mutely, wondering if he wears the same hungry look that Aramis does.

“I think we can lay to rest any doubt as to whether or not you can enjoy the attentions of a man.” Aramis smiles, making an effort to regain his composure, smoothing his moustache and beard, then combing fingers through his hair. “But the question remains, what are we to do about you and Athos?”

“We don’t even know whether Athos would want any such thing,” d’Artagnan ventures. “And especially from me.”

“My dear boy,” Aramis says. “Have you not heard a word I said? Have you observed the way he watches you? Of course he wants you. It is patently evident.”

“Even if that was so – and I am not saying that it is, mind you, that does not mean he will welcome it if I was to – to – uh… to do something about it.”

“If you wait for him to act, you will wait forever,” Aramis states flatly. “You must take the first step, d’Artagnan. Trust me, Athos will not be able to resist. He denies himself pleasure, yet he is a man of strong passions, and those passions have been pent up without anywhere to go for a long time now. If anything, you will have to be careful – it is liable to be like a dam breaking when he lets go.”

“Then if I was to follow your advice – if I was to take the first step – what should I do?”

“Men are simple, d’Artagnan. You do not need to woo or flatter. Just push Athos up against a wall some night – some night when he is just drunk enough, but not too drunk – and kiss him. The rest will take care of itself.”

It seems a foolhardy plan, but Aramis speaks with such authority that d’Artagnan half-believes it could work. “You are certain?”

“I wouldn’t urge it if I was not. Just, er,” Aramis hesitates. “It will probably be best if you leave out my part in this. I don’t think Athos would appreciate being the subject of our speculation.”

“No, I suppose not.”

“And now, my friend, I am afraid that you must leave,” Aramis says, scooping up d’Artagnan’s coat and ushering him to the door without further ceremony. “For I do not trust myself if you stay. But one word more.” He turns to d’Artagnan as they reach the threshold. “Do not wait too long. It is eating Athos away inside. I can’t say if he realizes his feelings for you, I truly can’t. I only know that if you care for him – if your feelings are as I believe they must be – then you must act, and act quickly.” He leans in and kisses d’Artagnan on both cheeks then, after a moment’s hesitation, bestows a soft and lingering kiss on his lips. “Now, goodnight. I must insist you leave before I do something I will regret.”

And d’Artagnan finds himself standing in the street, his jacket in a bundle in his arms, feeling like he’s drunk some potent elixir that has imbued him with the strength and energy of several men.

He bounces on his toes a few times, needing to move. He wants to run, or fight, or fuck, he isn’t sure which. All three would do. But fighting is unwise, as is fucking, at the moment. He can run though, and so he does, as fast as he can, through the streets, ignoring the startled and curious looks he draws from the few passers-by still out at that late hour. Runs past the Bonacieux’ house, and on into the next arrondissement, runs until he’s gasping for breath and pouring sweat and the strange energy that has filled him subsides to a low hum and then, finally, sputters out.

The walk back seems to drag on forever, and he curses himself for behaving so foolishly. He reaches his doorstep on leaden feet, trudges up the stairs and falls onto his bed fully clothed, barely managing to yank off his boots before he drops into a profound and dreamless sleep.

~*~

When he wakes the next morning, the first thought d’Artagnan has is, _Tonight. It must be tonight._ If he waits, he’ll never have the courage to act.

That evening he finds Athos where he so often can be found. D’Artagnan goes to the tavern early so as to intercept him before he has consumed his full quota for the night.

Athos smiles when he sees him, scooting over to make room on the bench.

“I must speak to you,” d’Artagnan says without preamble. 

“Very well.” Athos gives him his full attention.

“Not here. Somewhere private. Can we go to your place?” D’Artagnan tries to ignore the voice in his head telling him that this is insane. A successful outcome seemed nearly inevitable when Aramis had explained it. Now, with Athos watching him, a puzzled but tolerant frown on his face, what d’Artagnan is about to attempt seems the height of lunacy.

“If you insist. Though it is so noisy in here, no one can overhear us.”

“Nonetheless, if you don’t mind. I would rather go where I know we will not be observed.” Quite the understatement, d’Artagnan thinks.

Athos drains his cup and stands, donning his hat and gesturing for d’Artagnan to precede him.

“What’s this about?” he asks, when they reach the street.

“Nothing. That is, it is about something. Something important, in fact. But I can’t tell you here. I will tell you, just… I can’t until we’re somewhere more private.” D’Artagnan shuts his mouth before further inanities spill out. 

Athos is watching him curiously. “You seem nervous. Are you well?”

D’Artagnan’s dismissive laugh emerges distressingly high-pitched. “Absolutely, never better! I’m not nervous, not at all.”

Athos gives him a strange look. “Well. I suppose we shall see soon enough.” He starts down the street and after a moment, d’Artagnan falls into step beside him.

It is only a few blocks to the garrison. D’Artagnan feels strangely exposed crossing the courtyard with the intention he has in his mind, nodding to the few men lounging about, grateful for the dark which hides the flush on his cheeks.

Once inside, d’Artagnan closes the shutters while Athos lights a candle. It provides little enough illumination, but he has been in Athos’ room before and knows that there is precious little to see. A simple bed, an old armoire, a bare desk, a chair. It is in every respect the opposite of that graceful and stately home that d’Artagnan had seen only for the one night, its final night of existence before it was devoured by fire.

“You have piqued my curiosity,” Athos says, turning to him. “Pray tell, what is this matter that warrants such secrecy?”

 _Just push Athos up against a wall and kiss him_ , Aramis had said, _and the rest will take care of itself._

I certainly hope so, d’Artagnan thinks, because otherwise I won’t have the slightest idea what to do.

Athos has the honed instincts of a trained fighter, so d’Artagnan moves fast. He takes Athos by the shoulders, pushes until his back hits the wall. The unadulterated shock on Athos’ face is testament to the fact that it is the last thing he expects coming from d’Artagnan, and that is probably the only reason Athos hasn’t yet managed to get a hand on his dagger. Before he does, d’Artagnan says a quick, silent prayer, takes Athos’ face in his hands and kisses him. 

It’s probably only a few seconds during which Athos stands frozen, but it feels like much longer. D’Artagnan is cognizant of the rapid beating of his heart, the nervous sweat rising on his skin, the soft hairs of Athos’ beard beneath his palms, of his mouth, hot and wet, and the heady taste of wine. For a short, unbelievable moment Athos sinks into him, a miraculous surrender. Athos’ mouth answers his, his hands lifting to rest at d’Artagnan’s waist, and dear God, he is returning d’Artagnan’s kiss. Head dizzy with unexpected success, d’Artagnan presses in, ardent and wanting, a hot flush of desire washing through him. Emboldened, he slides a hand down Athos’ body, delighting in the hitch in his breath, the way his lips part beneath d’Artagnan’s. D’Artagnan swipes his tongue over Athos’ bottom lip and licks into his mouth, his hand landing on Athos’ groin, cupping him and, lightheaded with excitement, gently squeezing.

It turns in an instant. One moment Athos is opening sweetly under him like a bloom unfurling, the next he is shoving d’Artagnan away and glaring with so much anger that d’Artagnan quails before him. Athos rubs at his mouth with his sleeve as if he can so easily wipe away the memory of d’Artagnan’s mouth on his.

“ _What_ do you think you’re doing?!” he growls.

D’Artagnan stares at him, his wits struggling to catch up with this reversal, barely daring to breathe.

“I –” he manages to whisper, “I thought –”

“Did they put you up to this?” There is no need to ask who Athos means by _they_. “Do they mean to play me the fool?”

“No, Athos, I would never – they would never –”

“A wager then! Are you letting them use you in this way to settle a devious and dishonorable bet?” he spits.

D’Artagnan shakes his head vehemently. “No, you know I would never play a part in something like that. And they would not ask it of me. You must believe me. I – I truly thought –” D’Artagnan draws in a trembling breath, shamed to speak the words aloud. “I thought you wanted it.”

Athos watches him unblinking, his face ashen. Even filled with barely restrained anger as he is, d’Artagnan cannot not help the inappropriate awareness of how handsome a man Athos is, and how very badly he wishes this has gone differently, now that he has ruined everything.

“You thought –” Athos starts. He blinks, seeming to come back to himself. He looks at his hands on d’Artagnan’s shoulders, and slowly loosens his fingers, releasing d’Artagnan’s shirt. He takes a couple of slow, careful steps back. “You thought I _wanted_ –” He turns away, swearing.

D’Artagnan waits, heart hammering, not daring to speak another word. The enormity of his miscalculation overwhelms him. He fumes silently at Aramis for encouraging him, for weaseling out his secret desires and convincing him to act upon them, but ultimately it was his own decision, and he will be the one responsible for the consequences. 

And those consequences could be very dire, he realizes. It seems assured that he will lose Athos’ regard, and with it, his friendship. And with that loss will come the loss of his place with the Musketeers, if not officially, then at least the companionship he has grown accustomed to as a part of their group of four. If Athos chooses to speak out about what d’Artagnan has done, his commission will be forfeit, and he will be cast out onto the streets to fend for himself, an object of derision. And if the worst happens, even his liberty and his very life could be forfeit. But he cannot imagine that Athos would treat him thus, regardless of how grievously d’Artagnan has affronted him. And yet, d’Artagnan has placed himself entirely at Athos’ mercy.

Athos stands with his back to d’Artagnan, his hands on his hips, staring at the floor. D’Artagnan gets the impression that he is struggling mightily to master himself. 

“What have I ever done,” Athos grits out, “that led you to believe that I would welcome such… advances?”

D’Artagnan’s mind flicks through a series of memories. Of the many occasions he has noted Athos watching him with a strange, hungry intensity. Of Athos leaning close, his moustache tickling d’Artagnan’s ear, to murmur some joke or confidence only to him, blocking out everything and everyone around them. Of thighs touching warmly under the table, arms slung around each other as they weave down the street after a night of drinking. Of sparring matches that are somehow something more than that, the synchronicity of mind and body they share that d’Artagnan has never felt with anyone else. D’Artagnan on his back in the dirt, Athos pinning him down, his blade at d’Artagnan’s throat, an uncharacteristic tremor in the hand holding the sword and the strange hitch in his breath when he asks, “Do you yield?”

D’Artagnan remembers all those moments and more – moments in which Athos fairly screamed, _yes, yes, I would welcome your advances, I would welcome anything – everything – from you_. 

But he does not speak of those moments. Instead what comes unbidden out of his mouth is, “Aramis said –” 

He stops, instantly wishing he could swallow those words back down.

Athos turns to him slowly, eyes narrowed, his mouth a hard line.

“Aramis.”

“Athos, wait, it is not his fault. It is I who –”

“ _Aramis_!” Athos barks a sharp-edged laugh. “I should have known. He lets base desires govern his own actions, and thus believes that others do as well. He imagines that _I_ would have as little control over myself as he. That I would ever let myself – that I –”

He breaks off, staring at d’Artagnan with a strange, unreadable expression. Then he grabs his coat, shoving his arms into the sleeves, jamming his hat crookedly onto his head.

“Where are you going?” d’Artagnan asks, fearing that he already knows.

“He will answer,” Athos says with determination. “I will know what he means by this. He will explain himself or I will have satis–”

“No, Athos, for the love of God!” d’Artagnan cries, unable to bear the thought of his actions bringing his friends to violence. “If you take issue with anyone, let it be with me. The fault is mine, no one else’s!”

But Athos is already at the door, his hand on the latch.

“Your loyalty does you credit.” Athos pauses, then turns back to d’Artagnan, the coiled menace in his demeanor and the black expression on his face conveying his intent. He begins to say more, then stops himself, watching d’Artagnan for a long moment. “You should stay here,” he finally says, “For everyone’s sake.”

Then he is gone, boots thudding on the cobblestones.

~*~

D’Artagnan runs all the way to Aramis’ lodgings, cursing the indecision that kept him dithering for precious moments after Athos’ departure, before finally dashing out of the door in pursuit. He has no wish to witness the coming confrontation, to hear his deplorable actions spoken of aloud between two of the men he admires most in the world. He cannot stomach the thought of the scorn which will lace Athos’ voice, the humiliating position he has placed Aramis in by revealing his involvement in this mess, as if he was some kind of _procurer_ and d’Artagnan nothing more than a whore to be flung in Athos’ path, assigned with assuaging his needs.

These thoughts assail him as he hurries through the streets, while another part of his mind recriminates himself for his clumsiness, his inexperience. Some other man, someone suave and assured, more skilled than he in intimate, delicate matters – someone very like Aramis, in fact – could have finessed the situation and averted this disaster. Had he not acted so impulsively, had he brought Athos along gently and patiently, had he known how to _seduce_ and not just how to throw himself at someone or let them throw themselves at him – perhaps then things might have gone differently. If he had ever before had the slightest experience in bedding a man, in knowing what a man like Athos might want, what would move him to discard propriety and the strictures of accepted morality, what would make him so wild with passion that he would forsake his rigid hold upon unacknowledged desires – then d’Artagnan might have stood at least a miniscule chance of success. 

But the man who might have accomplished that is not d’Artagnan, whose experience is limited to tumbling giggling farm girls in the loft of his family’s barn and to Milady holding him down and taking what she wanted with little actually demanded of him beyond his youthful ability to recover quickly and go again, and sweet Constance who deserved better than he delivered and who welcomed his every caress all the same. But those women were no preparation for a man like Athos, and neither was that one all too brief experience with Aramis, enlightening as it has been. 

What it is that would constitute adequate preparation for a man like Athos, d’Artagnan cannot not imagine.

Evidently he arrives at Aramis’ rooms only a moment or two after Athos, for through the wide-open door he sees that Athos has Aramis against the wall, one hand fisted in the collar of his shirt. Porthos is there as well, standing before a tipped-over chair, a shocked expression on his face, and d’Artagnan is dismayed to realize that Porthos will be witness to every shameful revelation that emerges. Beside him is a table laden with a jug of wine, two half-filled glasses, a hunk of bread, a wedge of cheese. Athos has apparently interrupted a late night repast.

D’Artagnan immediately shuts the door behind him, mindful of the tableau they present to anyone passing by in the street.

“My dear Athos,” Aramis is saying, hands raised placatingly, “A visit from you is always a pleasure, but why such a sudden and,” he lays his hand atop Athos’ at his shirtfront, “intemperate interruption.”

“Do not feign innocence with me, Aramis.” Athos bites out each word, low and deathly precise. “Tell me, what do you mean by putting him up to it? Is it an attempt to even the score?”

"Aramis, what did you do?" Porthos interjects, but Aramis does not seem to even hear him.

“‘Even the score’? My friend, I have no idea what you mean.” Aramis has placed his hands on Athos’ shoulders, not pushing him away, just resting them there, almost as if they are dancing.

“Don’t you dare lie to me,” Athos hisses. “You know exactly what I mean. Do you trust me so little with the secret of your indiscretion that you seek to trick me into one of my own so that you can hold it over me? Do you truly believe that I would _ever_ breathe a word of what I know?”

“No, Athos, no,” Aramis insists, as he suddenly seems to realize to what Athos is referring. “Whatever you believe of me, please, do not believe that. I would never doubt you, _never_.” He grips Athos’ shoulders more tightly. “My trust in you is absolute. I _know_ that I am safe with you. I have no need to even any scores – indeed, there is no ‘score’ in the first place.”

D’Artagnan stares at them, slowly coming to the realization that they are speaking of some private matter unknown to him. The idea that Aramis and Athos share a secret, and one of some consequence, comes as something of a shock, and from the look on Porthos’ face, he feels much the same. D’Artagnan supposes he’s naïve, but he truly believed that between the four of them there were no secrets.

“Then if it is not that, do the two of you,” Athos steps back, gestures angrily toward Porthos “have a wager on it? Did you place your sous on me to succumb or to resist? To succumb, I think.” His lip curls derisively. “You find temptation everywhere you look and you imagine it is the same for everyone. Well, it is not, Aramis. You are just peculiarly… susceptible.”

“What are you implying?” Aramis says, his voice gone dangerously quiet.

Athos shrugs coldly. “I do not need to imply anything when you so avidly display your weakness for anyone to see.”

His voice has taken on an effortlessly arrogant tone that d’Artagnan has seldom heard from Athos. He is always well-spoken; he cannot help that his breeding is evident in his speech, but he rarely affects the manners of an aristocrat – not purposely, and never to belittle or hold himself above them, as he is doing now.

“You go too far,” Aramis breathes, a clear warning in his voice.

“Do I? I only state the truth. Everyone knows Aramis will fuck anything that moves, especially if there is some gain to be had from it.” Aramis’ face goes rigid and pale, and d’Artagnan feels the blood drain from his own face.

“I suppose you ascribed to me a similar inclination,” Athos continues. “But you will not find me as easily compromised.” 

“Watch what you say, old friend.” Aramis points at Athos warningly, an angry glint in his eye. “My regard for you compels me to overlook this insult, but do not test me further.”

D’Artagnan stands frozen in horror at the scene unfolding before him. He closes his eyes as a sense of unreality washes over him. Had it been only a few hours before that the four of them laughingly parted ways at the gate to the garrison, wishing each other a pleasant evening and making plans to meet in the morning for coffee? And now Athos and Aramis are on the verge of violence, all because of him.

He glances at Porthos, who seems to be barely managing to restrain himself from intervening, a glowering scowl on his face, his hands in tight fists at his sides.

“Your regard for me does not prevent you from seeking my dishonor, and from using d’Artagnan to attempt to achieve it,” Athos says.

“Dishonor?!” Aramis retorts. “You dishonor yourself with this accusation! I did not ‘use’ d’Artagnan in any way, and anything I said or did is meant only for your benefit.”

“My benefit?” Athos scoffs. “You must believe me a credulous fool. There is nothing about any of this that is designed for my benefit.”

“Credulous, perhaps. But a fool, most definitely,” Aramis flings back at him. “Look at yourself, Athos. Can you bear to remove the blinders and see what is plain before you?”

Before anyone can react, Athos is on him, driving him back to collide once again with the wall. “What I see before me is a false friend who twists my words and actions to his own purposes. Whatever they be, I know not.”

“Look at him,” Aramis hisses, nodding over Athos shoulder toward d’Artagnan. “Just take a moment and look at him, and then look me in the eye and deny that you feel anything.”

Athos draws back his fist and d’Artagnan winces in anticipation of the impending impact.

“Enough!” Porthos shouts, grabbing Athos’s arm. Athos tries to wrench free, but Porthos’ grip is unrelenting. “Athos, that is _enough_. And you,” he says, glaring at Aramis. “Not another word. Not,” as Aramis opens his mouth to speak, “Another. Word.”

Without relinquishing his hold on Athos, Porthos steps between them, moving Athos back, then placing a hand on each of their chests and pushing them firmly apart while Aramis and Athos stare daggers at each other, both breathing hard.

“Please,” d’Artagnan pleads. “Please stop. This is my fault. Aramis, I’m sorry I brought you into this. Athos, please don’t blame Aramis. Everything I did, I did because I wanted to. I apologize for insulting you by my actions.”

“Insulting him?” Aramis exclaims, apparently unable to resist, despite Porthos’ dire frown in his direction. “Don’t be ridiculous. You delivered his dearest wish to him, if only he weren’t too pig-headed to admit it.”

Athos lunges for him and Porthos braces himself, keeping the two antagonists at arm’s length.

“I will gag you if you don’t shut it,” he snaps at Aramis. Ignoring the affronted look he gets, Porthos turns to Athos. “And I’ll tie you to the damn chair if you don’t calm down.” He shakes his head in disgust. “Children, the both of you! You.” He gives Aramis a little shake, “Sit there.” He points at the unmade bed against the far wall. “And not one word.” 

For a moment, Aramis looks like he will resist, then he relents and goes over to the bed, sitting with a huff, a sullen expression on his face.

“And you,” Porthos says, “Sit here.” One big hand on Athos’ shoulder pushes him down onto a chair. “D’Artagnan, move that.” Porthos gestures at the jug of wine and the glasses. “The last thing this situation needs is more wine.”

“I disagree,” grumbles Athos.

“You don’t get a say,” Porthos says.

D’Artagnan removes the wine to a shelf in the corner. The scene has affected him badly. This animosity between his friends is so wrong. Certainly, Aramis and Athos bicker and Aramis is particularly fond of teasing Athos and at times Athos lets his frustration at some of Aramis’ less discreet adventures show, but d’Artagnan has never witnessed any true ill will between them. And it is all coming from Athos, he realizes. Aramis is doing no more than any of them would when faced with the kind of provocation Athos is throwing at him.

In fact, he has never seen Athos like this – so angry, so acrimonious toward one of his friends. If d’Artagnan had not seen it with his own eyes he would not have thought it possible.

For a few moments all is still, the only sound the crackle of the fire in the hearth and the noises of the city on the other side of the door. Porthos stands guard in the middle of the room, arms crossed over his chest, watching Aramis and Athos for the slightest sign of movement.

D’Artagnan takes what feels like his first full breath since his arrival. Despite the warmth of the fire he is chilled, and he moves silently over to stand closer to the hearth. He catches Athos watching him, and for a moment their gazes lock. D’Artagnan flushes deeply before looking away, the heat that fills him causing him to wish that he was not standing so near the flames.

“Now,” Porthos says, when the silence in the room has continued for so long that it has become a solid thing between them. “Athos, you have a grievance against Aramis. Please state it _calmly_ so that Aramis may answer.”

D’Artagnan shoots an alarmed look at Porthos. They are going to speak of this? Calmly? Surely it would be better to let it lie, to try to forget it and go on with their lives as if nothing had happened. They can manage that, can’t they? 

But even as he thinks it he knows that they cannot. It has gone too far. He has _kissed_ Athos, he has touched him in a way that is unmistakable. He has brought Aramis’ name into it in such a way that his part must be explained. Athos has flung unforgivable insults at Aramis and Aramis has answered with accusations of his own. It would not be possible to pretend none of this had happened. D’Artagnan wonders if violence might be preferable if the alternative is trying to _talk_ about it.

Athos takes a deep breath and flattens his palms to the table as if, by keeping them there, he can resist the urge to reach for a weapon.

“It would appear,” he says, in a deadly even tone, “that Aramis has prevailed upon d’Artagnan – by what means I know not, though I cannot help but believe that our young friend is an innocent pawn in this matter – at any rate, has prevailed upon him to – to – to _importune_ me in a most improper way.”

Aramis snorts. “ _Improper_? You sound like a schoolmarm.”

Athos scowls and opens his mouth to reply, but Porthos barks, “Aramis!” and Aramis holds up his hands. “Sorry, sorry.”

“And why do you believe Aramis had any part in this?” Porthos asks.

Athos raises his eyes to Porthos, then looks to d’Artagnan, who swallows, his mouth gone dry at the betrayal on Athos’ face. 

“Because d’Artagnan told me,” he says quietly.

And now Aramis directs a look of betrayal at him too, and d’Artagnan wishes most fervently for the floor to open beneath his feet and swallow him whole.

Porthos exhales gustily, eyebrows rising. “Well. That seems clear enough. Aramis, how do you answer?”

Silence.

“Aramis?” Porthos repeats.

“Oh, is it my turn?” Aramis asks, all wide-eyed innocence. “Am I allowed to speak now?”

“Yes, Aramis,” Porthos growls. “You may speak now.”

“I thank you,” Aramis says. “And I answer – guilty as charged.”

“What?!” cries Athos, half-rising from his chair. “You admit it?!”

“Sit!” Porthos orders, hands balling into fists.

Athos sits.

Porthos turns again to Aramis. “You had better explain, and explain well.”

Aramis looks at d’Artagnan, his lip quirking into an apologetic half-smile, and d’Artagnan knows with a sinking sense of resignation that the words that next come out of Aramis’ mouth will be both uncomfortable and deplorably truthful.

“My friend,” Aramis says, addressing himself to Athos, who refuses to look at him, or at any of them, instead staring fixedly at the floor. “None of this was done with the aim to belittle you, or to mock you, or to harm you in any way. Indeed, for my part, and I think I can say with assurance, for d’Artagnan’s part as well, it is your well-being that motivated us from the start.

“I have seen how you watch him.” Athos flinches, his face taking on an even stonier expression. “We have all seen. There is no shame in it, Athos.” Aramis leans forward, speaking intently, as if he and Athos are alone in the room. “You have cut yourself off from the joys of intimacy because of the bitterness of past experience. But that need not be the end of it. There is so much _more_ that is possible. And we, your friends who love you best, want you to have that.”

Aramis rises and walks cautiously toward him, as if approaching an unbroken horse that could lash out at any moment. “You have sworn to have nothing more to do with women. Fine, that is your prerogative. But you need not renounce all the pleasures that make life worth living. You have other options.”

He is standing before Athos now and he reaches out and cautiously places a hand on his shoulder. Athos twitches, but does not remove it. 

“You do not have to be alone. Here is d’Artagnan, who loves you, and what’s more, who _wants_ you. And you want him, however much you disavow it. Why do you deny yourself?”

D’Artagnan closes his eyes, wishing to be anywhere else. Somewhere without Athos, so that he will not have to endure the scorn with which Athos will look at him when he next raises his head and casts his gaze in d’Artagnan’s direction. Somewhere without Aramis, who dares to speak aloud of these things as if they will not damn him – damn them all. And without Porthos, whose expression gives no clue to his feelings and who must be hiding his disapproval out of consideration for them.

Athos does not look up, but his internal tumult is apparent in his hunched shoulders, his hands tightly gripping his knees, fingertips white. He shakes his head once, then again.

“It is wrong,” he almost gasps, his voice raw. It hurts d’Artagnan to hear it.

“Says who?” Aramis counters.

“The Church, for one.”

“Ah. The Church. And you are such a religious man.”

Athos grimaces. “I have faith – of a sort.”

Aramis fingers the rosary he wears around his neck. “It is all very well to be a man of virtue in the eyes of the Church, my friend. But you know as well as I that the Church already picks and chooses. ‘Thou shalt not kill’. How many men has the Cardinal killed? How many have we? Surely, it is less sinful to defy the Church’s teachings in matters of love, where harm comes to no one and much good can be achieved.” 

“Words, Aramis,” Athos demurs. “They are just words.”

“Fine, then. I believe in a God who does not condemn us for loving,” Aramis says. “It is as simple as that.”

Athos looks up at Aramis, then quickly away. “That God is unknown to me.”

“But you are not unknown to him.” Aramis smiles at Athos with a sad sort of understanding.

Athos peers up at him doubtfully. He wants to believe Aramis, d’Artagnan thinks, but he cannot. Aramis has the temperament to reconcile his sensual nature and his religious beliefs with apparent ease. But for Athos, there will always be conflict.

“What about the condemnation of society, then?” Athos tries. “Does that mean nothing to you?”

Aramis shrugs. “I cannot deny society condemns it. It is up to you whether you let the ignorant opinions of the masses determine your behavior.”

“For the love of God, Aramis, it’s _illegal_!” Athos exclaims.

Aramis smirks. “True, and we all know you are a man who adheres scrupulously to each and every law.”

“Upholding the law is our sworn duty!”

“Yes, and we break it nearly every day to do so.”

“This is pointless,” Athos cries, rising to his feet. Porthos takes a step forward, while Aramis moves back, the smirk dying on his face upon seeing the pain in Athos’. “It is _wrong_!” Athos slams his hand down on the table. “How can you doubt it? It is debased and disgusting. Only the very lowest order of man engages in such barbarity.”

D’Artagnan feels a lump in his throat at Athos’ words. Athos must think of him that way now. _Disgusting. Debased. Barbarous._

There is no coming back from this, d’Artagnan thinks in despair. No matter what happens next, things will never be the same between them.

He waits as the moment stretches, the tension in the room unbearable. Aramis’ face is stony but the look in his eyes as his watches his friend holds only sympathy. Porthos looks on unhappily, but as d’Artagnan watches something solidifies in his expression. His eyes fill with resolve, his mouth firming with decision.

Athos has slumped into the chair, rubbing his forehead with the heel of his palm, eyes shut tight, so he does not see what d’Artagnan does – Porthos coming up behind Aramis and wrapping his arms around him, and Aramis leaning back into the embrace, and Porthos placing a kiss on Aramis’ temple, and Aramis resting his arms on Porthos’, and laying his head on Porthos’ shoulder. 

D’Artagnan stares as so many little things that he has noted about the closeness of Aramis’ and Porthos’ friendship slot smoothly into place.

“And us?” Porthos says quietly. “Do we disgust you? Do you find us to be among the lowest of men?”

Athos looks up, taking in the scene before him. His mouth drops open, eyes moving between the two of them uncomprehendingly. D’Artagnan feels hardly less dumbfounded. After all, neither of them has ever let on, though how they so successfully hid the nature of their relationship from both he and Athos, d’Artagnan does not know.

Secrets, he thinks. He had not known that there could be so many secrets between them.

Aramis squeezes Porthos’ hand, then reaches behind his neck, twisting to look at him, drawing him close until their lips meet. It is not a salacious kiss, yet not a chaste one either. It is a kiss of lovers who know each other well, a kiss that has happened many times before, yet clearly it is a kiss whose pleasure has not dulled with time.

They look uncommonly fine together, d’Artagnan thinks, the elegant, graceful lines of Aramis’ body complementing Porthos’ heavier musculature. He glances at Athos, who has not recoiled or turned away, thank God, but who watches with the same stunned disbelief and helpless fascination that d’Artagnan does.

Porthos breaks the kiss and looks at Athos. “You see? That’s how it is between us. So now you know. And you must choose what you will do.”

“But,” Athos protests. “The women, Aramis. All those women.”

Aramis shrugs. “I like women. More than I ought, I know.”

“But he likes me better,” states Porthos with casual assurance.

“Porthos likes women too.” Aramis looks up at him with a little smile.

“Not as much as you do,” Porthos says. “Aramis is enough for me. Most of the time.”

“My God,” says Athos shakily, running a hand through his hair. “My God.” He closes his eyes, resting his head in his hands.

“I’m sorry, my friends.” Aramis reaches out toward Athos, then thinks better of it, letting his arm drop to his side. “We deceived you to protect you and, I suppose, in all honesty, to protect ourselves as well. Such knowledge isn’t easily shared, and it seemed kinder if we didn’t force upon you the difficult decisions that come with this particular truth.”

“Too late for that now,” murmurs Porthos.

“I think I need a drink,” Athos says.

Wordlessly, d’Artagnan fetches the wine, pours two glasses, hands one to Athos and swiftly downs the other himself.

“You see, Athos,” Aramis says, taking the empty seat at the table. “It wasn’t a joke or a wager and I am not using poor d’Artagnan. What Porthos and I have makes us happy, and I wanted you and d’Artagnan to be happy too. Maybe I overstepped, but I did mean well, I assure you.”

“Fine,” Athos mumbles, waving him off. He pours himself another glass. “Fine. I am glad that you are happy, Aramis. Truly I am.”

“But..?”

Athos does not deign to answer.

“But Athos believes himself unworthy of happiness,” d’Artagnan says. “He believes that the mistakes he makes when he was young render him deserving of nothing but penance and punishment for the rest of his life.” Athos turns to him and d’Artagnan can see it all in his face now, his fears and pain laying naked and exposed. It should make him pity the man, but it does not. It incenses him, so stupid, so pointless, so damnably self-indulgent is it. “It isn’t that the idea of being with a man – _with me_ – disgusts you,” he continues, speaking directly to Athos. “It’s that you don’t believe you deserve anything good, and you’re afraid that this might be just that. That it might make you happy – and that would destroy everything. The wall you’ve built around yourself to keep everyone out might come tumbling down, and then where would you be? The great Athos, so aloof, so very noble that he does not even suffer from emotion or desire like mere mortals do. God forbid that you risk discovering that you are still human, like the rest of us.”

“D’Artagnan,” Aramis says, laying a restraining hand on his arm. “Softly.”

D’Artagnan realizes his voice has risen, that what he is feeling is anger – a lot of anger. “He’s just afraid,” d’Artagnan says, an ugly twist to his voice. “Afraid of a little kiss.”

Athos rises swiftly to his feet, and for a vertiginous moment d’Artagnan doesn’t know if Athos means to hit him or kiss him. The look on his face could mean either.

“Well, I’m afraid too,” d’Artagnan says defiantly. “I was terrified to kiss you. But I did it anyway.”

D’Artagnan stares Athos down, refusing to look away. He has spoken the unspeakable truth and it is all out in the open now, and he will not be ashamed and he will not back down. 

“You are right. You are right about all of it.” Athos’ voice breaks. “You do not disgust me, d’Artagnan. Quite the – quite the opposite. But I cannot. I _cannot_.”

That is it then. Athos has decided. D’Artagnan looks to Porthos, who meets his eyes sadly. 

But Aramis’ attention is trained on Athos with a sharp-eyed, considering expression that he wears when he is examining a situation from a multitude of viewpoints, analyzing one after the other in an attempt to identify a new way to approach it. Evidently this evening the situation in question is Athos.

“Perhaps if we show them that there is nothing to fear,” Aramis says, turning to Porthos. There is a question on his face, one whose meaning Porthos divines immediately, to judge by his look of surprised comprehension. “We can do that for them, Porthos.”

“We can, but are you sure you want to?” Porthos is whispering, although both Athos and d’Artagnan are watching this exchange, and can easily hear them. “It will change things.”

“I know. Maybe it’s time for things to change.”

“Maybe it is.”

Aramis takes his hand, twining their fingers together.

Porthos smiles crookedly. “It’s fine with me. I’m not much for modesty, as I think you know.”

“Are you talking about what I think you’re talking about?” d’Artagnan breaks in, shocked and disbelieving and both fearing and hoping that he is right. 

“I’m fairly certain that we are,” says Aramis smoothly. “Now, you may both sit there and watch, and learn that there is nothing so frightening or,” he looks pointedly at Athos, “so disgusting, about two men lying together.”

“I expect there are other things you’ll learn as well,” Porthos says with a wry chuckle. “We’re willing, if you wish it. Will you stay?” When neither d’Artagnan nor Athos answers, he pulled Aramis close, and bends to nuzzle his jaw. “Suit yourselves. I s’pose it makes no matter to us, for we’ll conduct ourselves the same whether you’re here or not.”

“You need not do anything,” Aramis says, tilting his head to bare his neck to Porthos. He smiles as Porthos mouths at the long, exposed column of his throat. “Or you may join us if you’re feeling especially brave – either of you, or both.”

D’Artagnan’s eyes open very wide. He looks over at Athos, who is sitting stock still, a stunned expression on his face.

Dear God, thinks d’Artagnan. They are truly a couple of shameless lunatics. He has never considered the possibility that three of them – or _all four_ …

“I’m staying,” d’Artagnan says faintly as he sinks into a chair, fearing his legs will no longer hold him.

Athos says nothing. After a moment he rises, takes up his hat, and starts toward the door. D’Artagnan’s heart sinks. If Athos leaves he will have turned his back not only on what they have confronted him with tonight, but on their friendship, their alliance. It will be the end.

But Athos pauses, hand on the latch. D’Artagnan watches his fingers close around it, yet he does not lift it. Instead he remains still, on the verge of exiting but not taking that decisive step.

“Athos.” It is only a whisper, but d’Artagnan’s voice carries in the quiet room. 

Athos goes absolutely still at the sound of his name. After a moment in which d’Artagnan does not even dare to breathe, he lets his hand fall to his side. He slowly turns and leans against the door, crossing his arms. From where d’Artagnan sits he cannot see Athos’ eyes, for the angle of his hat shades his face well. It must be deliberate, but d’Artagnan cannot find it in him to mind. Athos is staying, that’s all that matters.

“It appears we have an audience,” Aramis murmurs, watching Athos with interest.

“Been a long time since that’s happened.” Porthos’ words are muffled against Aramis’ neck.

D’Artagnan swallows hard, trying without success to imagine with whom and how and when this scenario might have played out before.

“Let’s give them a good show,” Aramis says, turning to Porthos, who takes his face between his hands and kisses him passionately. It takes d’Artagnan’s breath away, and must Athos’ as well for he hears a quiet gasp from the direction of the door. Aramis sways toward Porthos as if magnetized, melting against him so that there is not a breath of space between their bodies. His arms loop around Porthos’ shoulders, fingers toying with the hair at the nape of his neck. Porthos’ hand moves to the back of Aramis’ head, holding him steady as he kisses deeper, their mouths open wide against each other, tongues meeting. Porthos slides a hand down Aramis’ back, over his ass, fingers spreading wide, pushing him forward so that Porthos can tilt his hips into him. They both make little noises at that, Porthos a grunt, Aramis something closer to a purr. D’Artagnan feels heat fill him, a full body flush that makes sweat rise on his skin, and good God, if watching just a kiss does that to him, how on earth will he be able to endure anything more?

He is soon to learn, for Aramis and Porthos waste no time. Articles of clothing are removed in haste – white linen shirts are tugged free from breeches and float to the floor like discarded flags of surrender, belts are tossed aside, boots and stockings are awkwardly removed. Trousers are pushed and pulled and tugged at until both Aramis and Porthos are left in only their smallclothes. There ensues a good-natured game involving mutual scrabbling at each other’s laces, slapping away of hands and twisting out of reach, interspersed with sloppy kisses and low laughter. D’Artagnan can almost believe that they have forgotten that he and Athos are there, but then Aramis casts a sidelong glance their way, to see, d’Artagnan assumes, if they are still watching. That proves his undoing as Porthos takes advantage of his diverted attention to win the game of the laces, and with one swift movement Aramis is suddenly bare before them, his drawers in a pile about his feet.

Another wave of heat sweeps through d’Artagnan. Seeing Aramis thus, under such circumstances, affects him more profoundly that he could have predicted. For Aramis is beautiful, muscled but lithe, his skin a warm golden hue dappled with silvery scars, and d’Artagnan has a sudden, wild desire to put his lips on every one of them. 

Of course, on occasion d’Artagnan has seen his friends partly disrobed when they washed up after some particularly dirty or sweaty assignment. He has even seen them entirely naked once when they passed by a inviting pond on a particularly sweltering day and, as there was for once no great urgency upon them, Aramis’ suggestion of an impromptu swim met with only token resistance from Athos, who had been forced to yield as the others ignored him in favor of casting off their clothes and making a beeline for the water. But seeing Aramis before him now, standing with his cock erect, his eyes dark and hungry as he gazes up a Porthos with an inviting little smile on his lips, holds none of the casual innocence of those earlier occasions. This is intimate and secret and unmistakably, intensely, carnal.

Porthos makes a satisfied hum at Aramis’ state of undress, running his hands from his shoulders to his hips. He appraises Aramis with a warm and appreciative look in his eye, approval and desire and affection plain upon his face. 

D’Artagnan wonders what it would feel like to be looked at like that. A warm glow ignites low in his belly at the thought. He’s fairly certain he has never had the experience of being looked at with quite so much interest by anybody, and the thought that one of his friends might direct such a gaze towards him… it makes him weak just to think of it.

Without further ado Porthos picks Aramis up with startling ease and dumps him upon his back on the bed. Aramis makes a protesting _oof_ and tries to sit up again, but Porthos is on him, covering him and bearing him down and Aramis relents, letting him fit them together as he wants, pushing one of Aramis’ knees out wide so he can snug their pelvises in tight and grind his hips slowly and firmly into Aramis’, a motion that makes d’Artagnan experience a moment of dizziness, but which has far more effect on Aramis, causing him to groan loudly, head tilting back against the thin pillow.

“You devil,” he gasps, grabbing Porthos by the ears and pulling him into an open-mouthed kiss that starts out lewd and only gets more so as it continues. Porthos draws back and rolls his hips again, smiling as Aramis again arches beneath him, his mouth falling open. He hooks a leg around Porthos’ thighs, his hands digging into his ass through his smalls to urge him on. “What are you waiting for?” he pants, “C’mon, give it to me.”

“Greedy,” Porthos says fondly. “ _And_ impatient,” but he gives Aramis what he wants anyway, rolling his hips as Aramis goes boneless beneath him, his moans making d’Artagnan shiver, arousal dancing lively along his nerves, firing up his blood until he is so warm that he feels feverish. He watches the muscles of Porthos’ back shift, the way his buttocks flex as he moves. Aramis matches him as they fall easily into a rhythm, their breathing synchronized, even the little noises they make to express their pleasure echoing each other.

D’Artagnan shifts in his chair, seeking a more comfortable position. His cock is pushing distractingly against the confines of his breeches, and the urge to ease the stricture of his laces is hard to resist. He shoots a glance to Athos, who remains at the door, as still as a statue. Any effect that the scene is having upon him is well-disguised by the folds of his coat.

“Tell me you can resist him when he’s like this, and I’ll tell you you’re lying.” Porthos addresses them, gently biting Aramis’ raised knee that he has captured in the crook of his arm. He slides his hand down the back of Aramis’ thigh to stretch around the smooth curve of an ass cheek, Aramis visibly shuddering as he does so. “I tell you, it’s not possible,” he says, leaning down to kiss him.

To d’Artagnan’s eye it appears that Porthos is entirely mastering Aramis, and that Aramis is happily allowing himself to be mastered. He supposes that is what people object to – a man letting himself be mastered like that. Like a woman, people would say. But Aramis’ surrender does not strike d’Artagnan as effeminate. And even as he has this thought, Aramis drags Porthos back down to him, and they roll and suddenly Aramis is on top, straddling Porthos’ hips and grinning down at him. Which is the master now, d’Artagnan cannot say for certain. Aramis grins as he rocks atop Porthos and Porthos lets out a growl and takes Aramis by the hips, pulling him down even harder.

It must, d’Artagnan thinks, feel exceedingly fine to be beneath Aramis like that. He imagines the weight of him, the way it might feel to be moved upon by someone with that degree of strength. It would be different from having a woman astride him. Heavier, d’Artagnan imagines. More solid. His thighs would be hard with muscle, his movements more powerful. D’Artagnan imagines his hands gripping Aramis’ hips as Porthos’ are, framing his pelvis and directing his movements, and his – his erect cock right there so close before him. Unlike his previous efforts to imagine such a thing, now it is real and immediate and taking place right in front of him. And he wants it, he realizes. He wants it with a deep, aching desire that he is not sure he can resist. He is not sure that he even wants to try.

He sits up straighter, ignoring the insistent ache in his groin, and makes himself look, really look, at what is before him. This whole exercise is being conducted for their education, his and Athos’. There are things he needs to understand about how this works and about what he wants and who he wants it with, and he will watch and learn and make no protest, even if what he sees feels like something that ought not to be witnessed by anyone. This is Aramis’ and Porthos’ gift to them. They are letting him and Athos in on a very dangerous secret, trusting that they will not be betrayed or ridiculed or shunned. They are allowing a glimpse of what they are to each other, how they pleasure each other – how they love each other. D’Artagnan will not do them the insult of looking away.

As he looks now, Aramis plucks at the laces of Porthos’ smallclothes, slowly pulling them free. 

“These must go, I’m afraid.” He tucks his thumbs in the waist and begins to work them down over Porthos’ hips, scooting down the bed to Porthos’ feet as he goes. “I know you’re shy to show yourself in front of our friends, but in the interest of fairness, I must insist.”

Porthos snorts and lifts his hips, letting Aramis rid him of his one remaining garment. He does not appear to be in the least shy, not with his hand wrapped around his prick, stroking himself idly while he watches Aramis with heavy eyes.

“C’mere,” Porthos says. “Bring me that pretty cock.”

D’Artagnan swallows the sound that wants to emerge from his throat at the filthy words and the deepened tone of Porthos’ voice. He is hard and wanting and nearly desperate to do _something_ , he knows not what. He grips the seat of the chair tightly, trying to keep himself in check. 

He wants them. The realization comes sudden and clear as day and it settles on him with a strange sense of inevitability. That kiss he has shared with Aramis was only the beginning. He wants more – from him, from Porthos, and from Athos. How such a thing is possible he does not understand, yet it is undeniably true. He cannot separate his desire into three distinct strands and say _I want only this one and not the others_. That name the three of them had been given, _The Inseparables_ , he thinks a bit hysterically, how very true it is turning out to be.

Aramis moves forward on his knees until Porthos can take both of their cocks in one hand, his long fingers wrapping around them, squeezing them together. The muscles in Porthos hips and stomach tense, but with Aramis’ weight upon him he’s fairly well pinned to the mattress. For his part, Aramis lets his head fall back with a loud and shameless groan that makes d’Artagnan’s cock twitch, and blurt a gob of wetness into his drawers.

Porthos’ gaze flicks to d’Artagnan who shivers to be the object of Porthos’ attention when he is doing _that_. Aramis turns to him too, and it is all he can do to hold still and let them look. His arousal is obvious, despite the heavy fabric of his trousers. They note it, and a look passes between them.

“What are you thinking, d’Artagnan?” Aramis asks. “Does this,” he motions between himself and Porthos, “interest you? Are you interested enough to come over here and let us take care of you?”

D’Artagnan’s, mouth has gone dry. He sits staring at them dumbly, unable to work up a response.

“And you, Athos? Do you have anything to say?” But he, too, is silent, and d’Artagnan cannot tell his state of mind, hidden as he is behind the concealment of his hat.

“Our friends are strangely quiet,” states Porthos, settling back. His hand moves, stroking the both of them even as he speaks. “Maybe our little show isn’t to their liking. Do you think they find us boring?”

“Perhaps,” Aramis manages, his voice wavering a bit. “Perhaps they would prefer to be elsewhere.”

“No,” d’Artagnan says, finally finding his voice. “I do not wish to be elsewhere.” 

Somehow he finds himself on his feet, the noise of the chair scraping against the floor jarringly loud. He glances back at Athos, who has raised his head, surprise making him unguarded. Their eyes meet and hold, and for a few seconds the rest of the room fades and there is only he and Athos and the nearly insurmountable urge to cover the five or so steps it would take to bring them together.

In that moment, d’Artagnan knows without a doubt that Athos wants him. And d’Artagnan wants Athos in return, but he is ready to act now, before he loses his nerve. Athos will have to catch up, and d’Artagnan hopes with all his heart that he will, but he cannot wait. His body, his heart, will not let him. He is allowing his emotions to rule his actions again, as Athos has warned him against. It seems he has learned nothing.

D’Artagnan’s feet are taking him of their own accord across the room, which seems to have grown in size so that it takes far longer to traverse than it should. He moves with no real awareness of what he is doing, his body trembling with a sickening mix of nerves and arousal, until he stands before the bed. He looks down at his friends, with their miles of lovely, unfamiliarly bare skin and finds them even more desirable than they had been from across the room. D’Artagnan feels jittery and scared and overwhelmed, and absolutely determined to know at any cost what their bare skin will feel like against his.

He does not say a word, but with one swift motion, removes his shirt, letting it fall, then bends to pull off his boots. Trousers, smallclothes and stockings are shoved down, and he kicks the whole mess free and straightens, presenting himself to them naked as the day he was born, trembling and flushed pink and giddy at his own daring.

“Whoa-ho,” Porthos says, smiling broadly, his eyes raking d’Artagnan from toe to crown. “Our young friend takes a stand.”

“I told you,” Aramis whispers, dark eyes drinking d’Artagnan in. He can feel Athos behind him, no doubt studying him as well, and it is almost more than he can bear, this scrutiny from all sides. His skin prickles, goose bumps rising, fine tremors chasing through his muscles.

“I hope there’s room for me.” D’Artagnan’s voice wavers deplorably. 

“Of course there is.” Aramis takes his hand and draws him closer, removing himself from where he kneels upon Porthos to clear a space on the bed. “Come here. Porthos, make room.” Porthos sits up, scooting to lean back against the wall.

D’Artagnan, still enveloped in a strange sense of unreality, lets Aramis draw him down and arrange him so that he is leaning back onto Porthos’ chest, a position that would be comfortable if he was not quite so tense, every touch of skin on skin making him seize with fits of trembling. He cannot help it, he is shaking like a leaf, and no wonder. He has crossed the line of anything deemed decent and moral by society, aligning himself with what it calls the depraved, the sodomites, the lowest of the low. He has done it willingly, and he cannot find it evil, yet it is no small thing and his heart beats hard at the thought of it.

“Shhh.” Aramis’ face fills his vision, eyes full of gentle understanding. “All is well, my dear.” He strokes the hair back from d’Artagnan’s forehead, giving him an encouraging smile. “You’re among friends, after all.”

Porthos chuckles, his breath warm against d’Artagnan’s ear. “Indeed you are, and don’t you forget it.” His arm snakes around d’Artagnan’s middle, pulling him firmly against his body, so much warmth at his back, and it feels good, all that strength and comfort allowing him to let go a little. Just as he begins to catch his breath he has a sudden awareness of something hot and hard nudging his flank and he can’t suppress a startled jerk.

“S’all right,” Porthos flexes his hips, grinding against d’Artagnan’s hip. “Can’t help it. You feel too good.” 

D’Artagnan closes his eyes and takes a deep, unsteady breath. 

“That’s right, breathe,” Aramis says. “Nice and slow. You’re doing fine.”

Is he doing fine? D’Artagnan cannot say. His mind is awash with a myriad of sensations – Porthos behind him, cradling him, holding him close while he ruts leisurely against him, which in itself feels like too much for his poor brain to process. But then Aramis straddles d’Artagnan’s lap, just as he had imagined, settling upon him as a warm, intimate weight, skin to skin, his balls an odd, soft pressure which d’Artagnan can’t compare to anything he has felt before. Aramis rests his hands on d’Artagnan’s shoulders and leans forward, placing a kiss on the center of his chest and d’Artagnan thinks that surely Aramis can feel his heart leaping wildly just beneath his lips.

And through it all, he is painfully conscious of Athos, watching. 

D’Artagnan is attuned to that gaze as if it were a physical extension of the man, something palpable, another hand on him, another pair of lips. Athos may be ten feet away, but to d’Artagnan he is as much an actor in this play as any of the rest of them. D’Artagnan needs him as he needs Aramis and Porthos – possibly even more. He is here between them because of Athos; they are all here because of Athos. Yet Athos holds himself apart, as he always does. D’Artagnan briefly entertains the idea of going to him, sitting in his lap or bringing him back to join them, but the possibility of being rebuffed stays him. Ultimately, the iron grip Athos has on his will means that one cannot hope to sway him if he does not decide to let himself be swayed. He has chided d’Artagnan for letting emotion rule him, and d’Artagnan’s actions tonight have proved, once again, that he is right. But so be it. He will never be as Athos is – nor would he wish it so.

Besides, had he tried to rise he would not have gotten far with Porthos’ arm securely around him, whether an embrace or a restraint d’Artagnan is not entirely sure, and with Aramis half-sitting atop him, now scooting backward down his legs as he kisses a southward trail from d’Artagnan’s chest to his belly, the brush of his beard and the soft touch of his lips leaving lingering trail of pleasurable chills as he goes.

D’Artagnan arches, panting, needing to move. Pinned as he is by Aramis’ weight, he can only manage to wiggle free enough to turn his upper body toward Porthos, seeking, though he could not have said for what. He needs something that will ground him between Aramis’ feathery kisses and Athos’ dark gaze. Porthos smiles at him, a wide smile that crinkles the corners of his eyes and makes d’Artagnan catch his breath as Porthos slides a hand along his jaw, turning his face up to his own, and kisses him soundly and without the slightest hesitation.

Suddenly, d’Artagnan understands the way that Aramis melted into Porthos’ kiss, why he so easily surrendered to him; he understands it in a way he never could have by merely watching. Porthos kisses the way he fights, wild, undisciplined, gleefully ferocious, a stark counterpoint to Aramis’ careful, skilled seduction. While Aramis convinces, Porthos takes, seemingly certain that d’Artagnan will be happy to give. And indeed he is, letting Porthos in when his tongue demands entry, letting him do as he pleases, letting Porthos’ kiss banish his qualms in a hot storm of want. He groans, pressing closer, twisting to wrap his arms more tightly around Porthos’ shoulders.

Porthos cradles d’Artagnan’s skull in one hand, the other smoothing along his side, over his hip and coming to rest possessively on his rear, squeezing one cheek. D’Artagnan isn’t prepared for the way his hips buck at that, at how it makes a jolt of lust race through him. No one has ever done such a thing to him before and he finds it incredible that it can make him weak with the need for more. He pants into Porthos’ mouth, at a loss to understand his response, but too aroused to examine it closely.

A hand tugs his knee up over Porthos’ hip and it isn’t Porthos, for he has one hand beneath d’Artagnan’s head as he plunders his mouth, one hand kneading his buttock as if it’s a springy batch of dough. Thus it must be Aramis, who d’Artagnan cannot at present see; he can sense him though, hovering just behind, and he can feel him, for the hand that has repositioned his leg is now sweeping down it from thigh to ankle, then back up again.

Porthos takes instant advantage of the new position, fingertips flirting boldly along the cleft of d’Artagnan’s ass, and it isn’t that it’s not pleasant, because it is – it is so much more than pleasant. But it is strange, and confusing, and d’Artagnan isn’t sure he should allow it, because surely it will only lead to something that he has determined that he must avoid. And, d’Artagnan realizes, his body burning with a bewildering mix of arousal and shame, from his vantage point Athos has a clear view of everything. He will be watching even now as Porthos’ hand travels down and back, until his fingers brush a place that makes d’Artagnan’s eyes fly open. He makes an undignified squeak, rearing back and glaring at Porthos indignantly.

“What?” asks Porthos, eyes innocently wide, but he does move his hand away.

“I don’t – I don’t think you should do that.” It is hard to sound firm when he can barely steady his voice. He struggles to a seated position. Aramis is leaning on up one hand, just behind d’Artagnan, biting his lip as he watches their exchange.

Porthos regards him doubtfully. “Oh? And why is that? You seemed to like it.”

“I don’t _like_ it,” d’Artagnan starts, but that is a lie and the words dry up in his mouth. He _had_ liked it, he wants more of it, he just doesn’t _want_ to like it.

“Well, _I_ like it,” Aramis says, resting his chin on d’Artagnan’s shoulder, “when he does it to me.”

“As do I,” Porthos says, “when he does it to me.”

“You do?” This is a new idea, that they both might like such a thing, and that they might do it to each other, and what’s more, admit to liking it. 

“We do,” Porthos says, “but you needn’t, if you really don’t want to. Some blokes don’t.” He shrugs. “It’s not required or anything.”

This casts the act in a different light, knowing that his friends profess so candidly to enjoying it, and that it is not just something they expect him to submit to by virtue of being the youngest or as some type of initiation.

“But I think you should try it,” Aramis adds, reaching for his hand. D’Artagnan lets him take it. “If not now, then at some point. It’d be a shame to let prejudice rob you of one of life’s great pleasures.”

“It’s not prejudice,” d’Artagnan protests.

“No? Then what is it?”

“It’s just –” D’Artagnan can’t claim it is repugnant or unnatural – not when Porthos and Aramis have admitted to liking it. And despite having been taught that it is those things and worse, he no longer believes that. He searches for another explanation. “I’ve just never considered _that_ part of me being, uh, involved in something like – um – like this,” he finishes lamely, making a gesture to encompass the three of them, the bed, the discarded clothing encircling it like a ring around the moon. 

“ _That_ part of you can be very much involved,” Porthos says, smiling wickedly. “Come on, little one, let me show you.”

“You should let him,” Aramis moves close to whisper in d’Artagnan’s ear. “You’ll like it, I promise. He’s very good at it. Just relax and let him in. You’ve trusted us so far, trust us this little bit more.” And then he adds what is undoubtedly the best piece of advice for the situation. “Don’t think. Just _feel_.”

D’Artagnan is overwhelmed by the two of them, so close, so focused on him. To be the object of both of their attentions at once is almost more than his mind, let alone his body, can handle. They are being so kind and generous and careful with him and he desires them both so much and they are so damnably attractive. He supposes he’s always thought so, but now that such feelings are allowed he can barely contain how much he wants them.

“Yes,” he relents. “Fine. Do what you want with me.” 

It is true, he wants it. And he wants them – both of them, and if Athos is determined to hold himself apart, so be it. His gut tells him to trust, and so he will, for his current situation is so far out of his realm of experience that he has nothing else to base his decisions on. He has trusted them with his life more than once. To trust that they will not abuse the license he allows or ask more of him than he is willing to give does not seem such a leap.

He draws Porthos to him and kisses him, resolutely shutting his eyes and emptying his mind, determined to take Aramis’ advice and _just feel_. It isn’t difficult with Porthos, whose commitment to lovemaking seems to match the degree of commitment he brings to other areas of his life. Kissing Porthos is like being engulfed by some powerful force of nature. D’Artagnan has never been to sea, but he thinks it might be something like that, like being on a small ship tossed about by wind and wave. D’Artagnan lets himself sink into it, lets Porthos work his mouth wide and plunder it with his tongue, giving back what he can even while it feels like he is struggling to stay afloat.

Porthos rolls them, bearing him down beneath him, one heavy thigh pinning his leg to the bed. D’Artagnan arches up, wanting to feel Porthos’ solid strength pressing down on him. Porthos smiles against his mouth, kisses him more deeply still, a hand sliding down over d’Artagnan’s hip to splay across one cheek of his ass.

“Hand me the oil, love,” Porthos says, drawing back just enough to speak and holding out his hand to Aramis, his warm, dark gaze remaining trained on d’Artagnan.

Aramis takes a small bottle from an ornamental box on the shelf near his bed and holds it just out of Porthos’ reach. 

“Only if you share,” he taunts, winking at d’Artagnan, who has torn his gaze away from Porthos to look at him. “He’s being very selfish with you.”

“Please, help yourself,” Porthos says, shifting back so that he is not quite so completely enveloping d’Artagnan, and leaning up on his elbow. “I believe there is enough here for the two, or,” he casts his eyes slyly toward Athos, who at some point has seated himself in the chair that d’Artagnan abandoned, “possibly even for the three of us.”

But d’Artagnan does not see if Athos acknowledges his words, for Aramis, having relinquished the little bottle to Porthos, kneels above him, planting a hand beside his head, the other trailing up and down his belly, from the base of his ribs to just above his cock.

“Now, where were we before we were interrupted?” Aramis looks down to watch his fingers move over d’Artagnan’s skin. “Ah, yes. I think it was just – here,” and they ghost lightly down the length of his cock, then back up again, a fingertip painting a lazy circle through a bit of wetness at the tip.

“Ah!” d’Artagnan pants. 

Aramis glances at him, lips curved in a knowing smile. “Yes? Good?”

D’Artagnan nods.

“More?” Aramis asks, fingers still moving over him in far too leisurely a manner.

“God, yes,” d’Artagnan gasps.

“Blaspheming already. That didn’t take long,” Aramis murmurs, leaning in to catch his lips in a quick, ardent kiss. 

He draws back with a pleased little hum. “How about this?” Those barely there touches again, moving lower, ticklish over his balls, but enough to make him squirm, his legs inching out wider of their own volition.

“You will learn, if you haven’t already figured it out, that Aramis is a terrible tease,” Porthos says, uncorking the bottle he is holding.

“Psshh, you know you like it,” Aramis interjects.

“But me, I tend to be more direct.” Porthos waggles his eyebrows, giving d’Artagnan a lecherous grin, and d’Artagnan finds himself grinning back.

An exotic scent surrounds them, a sweet, spicy smell and not one that is familiar. D’Artagnan watches, stomach fluttering and heart pounding, as Porthos pours oil into his palm, and then he looks away, not wanting to see.

Aramis leans down, brushing his lips across the hair leading down from d’Artagnan’s navel, warm breath flirting across his skin so lightly that it tickles. He shudders as Aramis’ tongue touches him, tracing a meandering path from one hipbone to the other, alternating soft, leisurely licks with slow, wet kisses. D’Artagnan winds his fingers in the bedclothes, arches his neck back against the pillow and tries to remember to breathe.

“I want to put my mouth… here.” Aramis muses, running a fingertip from the base of d’Artagnan’s cock to the tip. He looks up at d’Artagnan through his lashes, giving him a lascivious smile. “Will you let me do that to you, d’Artagnan?”

Porthos leans in to whisper, “I’d advise you to say ‘yes’.”

D’Artagnan swallows, searching for his voice. In the end he just nods, then watches, mesmerized, as Aramis licks his lips, then delicately takes the tip of d’Artagnan’s cock between them. 

“Oh,” he says, eyes falling closed.

“No, watch this,” Porthos breathes. “You have to see it.”

D’Artagnan forces his eyes open, makes himself focus on what Aramis is doing. Aramis glances up at him, catching his eyes as he suckles him gently, his tongue working an unholy magic over him, forcing noises out of him that he cannot suppress. Aramis is giving him only shallow, light touches with lips and tongue, and doing it with a great deal of showy finesse. He makes it look absolutely sinful and clearly takes a great deal of enjoyment from doing so, watching d’Artagnan’s reactions with hot, smiling eyes and glancing over to Porthos every so often to make sure he is enjoying the show as well.

Porthos grips the back of his thigh, bending it out of the way then leaning against it, sitting close beside Aramis while keeping d’Artagnan spread wide. He slides a hand between d’Artagnan’s legs, touches a slick, oily finger to him. D’Artagnan squeezes his eyes shut as his breath shivers in and out unsteadily. _Oh God_ , he thinks, not sure if it’s nerves or excitement undoing him. His gut clenches, his body tightens. He tries to make himself relax, to breathe normally. Porthos doesn’t penetrate, just rubs and strokes, unexpectedly gentle. D’Artagnan struggles between the twin urges of spreading himself wide and letting himself truly feel it and clamping his legs together and putting an en  
d to this particular experiment. It’s not that it isn’t good – he can feel his body wanting to give in – it’s just that his mind will not refrain from insisting that what he is doing is wrong.

He is just taking a breath to ask Porthos to stop when Aramis suddenly leaves off with his teasing and slides his mouth down d’Artagnan’s cock with a truly astonishing degree of businesslike suction, taking him deep into his throat and swallowing around him with admirable grace. D’Artagnan shouts and flails and writhes and would have pumped his hips shamelessly into Aramis’ mouth if he hadn’t already taken the precautionary step of pinning them to the bed. Aramis, seemingly undisturbed by d’Artagnan’s squirming, slides his mouth down onto d’Artagnan’s cock again, and again, and it isn’t until d’Artagnan’s legs decide that they need to wrap around Aramis’ back and hold him even closer that he realizes that Porthos has a finger buried inside him quite as far as it will go. But he cannot spare a thought to what it means, not with so many sensations wildly buffeting him. He cannot even tense at it, so that when Porthos moves his finger carefully inside him, d’Artagnan feels no pain at all, only an aching goodness that makes him shake, makes the muscles in his legs tighten.

He struggles to find a breath, but just then Porthos does something – touches something, and d’Artagnan’s world tilts on its axis. What little hold he still has on himself is wrenched away and all is sensation, the wet, lush mouth around him, the thick fingers, God, two of them now, moving inside him, unerringly finding the place that makes him shudder and arch and cry out. It is almost _too good_ , if such a thing were possible. He forgets about right and wrong, about his doubts and hesitation, about who is doing what to him, as Aramis and Porthos take him apart in ways he has never dreamt possible.

He is saying something, begging possibly, pleading probably, cursing most certainly.

“That’s it,” he hears Porthos say somewhere in the far distance. “God, look at him. He’s right there.” 

He is, he feels his climax building and there’s nothing he can do to stop it.

And Athos, still watching, will see it all. Even with his eyes closed d’Artagnan is conscious of Athos there, a silent witness, and it is that thought that tips him over the edge, and with a sharp cry he falls. 

Aramis releases his hold on d’Artagnan’s hips, finally letting him move as he pleases, as he needs to. Porthos somehow stays with him so that d’Artagnan impales himself onto his fingers with every wild thrust. His body seizes, and he comes, bright points of light exploding behind his eyelids, noises ripped from his throat that he can no more bite back than he can pull the moon down from the heavens.

He is vaguely aware of Aramis sucking him through it, swallowing his release, which in itself is something amazing to d’Artagnan had he the presence of mind to contemplate it, then pillowing his head on d’Artagnan’s hip, of Porthos slowly withdrawing his fingers, and the bed shifting beneath him. He opens his eyes to see Aramis leaning up over him, watching him with undisguised fascination.

“Darling, you really are incredible, do you know that?” Aramis says all in a rush. He takes d’Artagnan’s hand, wraps it around his cock, and together they stroke him fast and tight. “Please tell me you’re all right with this,” Aramis grits out, a desperate edge to his voice.

“Yeah. Yes.” D’Artagnan agrees, still dazed, but more than willing.

Porthos rise to his knees and positions himself close behind Aramis, who melts back against him. He grasps Aramis’ hips and it takes a bit of shifting about to achieve his goal, which seems to be his cock riding the center of Aramis’ ass.

“Are you going to fuck me?” Aramis asks breathlessly. “I want you to fuck me.”

Porthos bites Aramis’ ear and then his neck, his breath blowing gustily against his skin. 

“Not this time, my dear,” Porthos says. “Let’s take it slow for today. Just carry on with what you’re doing and I’m going to rub off against your gorgeous ass, if that’s all right with you.” From somewhere Porthos has found the bottle of oil and he pours some in his palm and uses it to slick himself up and then, from the way Aramis gasps, to do the same to him, before he starts to move. 

“Ah!” says Aramis, leaning back fully onto Porthos, letting him take his weight. D’Artagnan can’t see what exactly Porthos is doing, but it’s pretty clear from the rhythmic motion of his hips that he’s got his cock sliding along Aramis’ crack and it’s pretty clear from Aramis’ reaction that he likes it. Porthos looks down, leaning his forehead on Aramis’ shoulder.

D’Artagnan looks to Athos, who must be able to see everything, to find him watching, still and silent, giving nothing away. He wishes more than anything that he would do something, say something, give some indication that he is affected, but Athos is contrary, as usual, and keeps whatever reaction the scene before him is eliciting entirely to himself.

Aramis opens darkened eyes, gazing at d’Artagnan beneath his lashes. He is at once very present and far away, and d’Artagnan couldn’t say with certainty if Aramis is truly seeing him at all. He strokes faster, tightening his grip and Aramis thrusts into his hand, keeping time with him, his movements accompanied by soft, hitching cries that grow in volume.

“That’s right,” Porthos says, his voice softening as he speaks directly into Aramis’ ear. “Come for us. Show us how beautiful you are when you come.”

Aramis flushes full up from his chest, his eyes going glassy. “Oh,” he says low, and then, “Oh,” louder and sharper, and then _”Ohhh,”_ low and drawn out. D’Artagnan feels it in Aramis’ cock stiffening and swelling in his hand, in the way Aramis’ head tilts back, his face going slack with ecstasy. Anticipation makes d’Artagnan catch his breath, his whole body filling with heat as Aramis shudders, and comes messily all over d’Artagnan’s belly.

Porthos makes a deep, rumbling groan in his chest and his fingers dig into Aramis’ hips, probably leaving finger-shaped bruises.

Aramis folds forward onto d’Artagnan, kissing him and then laying heavily against him, pliant and damp with sweat. “Oh,” he says, just above a whisper, his face buried in d’Artagnan’s neck. “Oh _God_ , that was good.” 

Porthos takes a firmer hold of Aramis’ hips, and fucks along his upturned ass, jolting him with every stroke. Aramis wraps an arm around d’Artagnan’s head and presses closer, making little _ah ah ah_ noises, sounding quite lost in pleasure. D’Artagnan wraps his arms around him, and holds him close. With Aramis bent over, d’Artagnan has a clear view of Porthos, and he watches now as Porthos curls over, shuddering deeply and surprisingly silent as he spills in milky rivulets across Aramis’ back.

All is still, then Porthos sighs deeply and sits back on his heels, breathing hard. For a moment no one moves, then from somewhere, Porthos procures a square of cloth and wipes Aramis’ back and down along his crack.

“Thank you,” Aramis mumbles, and rolls off d’Artagnan to sprawl beside him on the bed, leaving one hand resting lightly on his hip. Porthos folds the cloth in on itself and applies it to d’Artagnan’s stomach, and then Aramis’. D’Artagnan smiles at him in thanks, and Porthos nods, then swings his legs over to sit on the edge of the bed. He studies the floorboards for a moment, then raises his head, looking at Athos.

“My friend,” Porthos says, one hand outstretched. “We’ve shared everything. Bared everything. Is there nothing you can say? After all this,” he motions toward Aramis and d’Artagnan, “can you give us anything at all?”

Aramis leans up on one elbow, watching Athos curiously. D’Artagnan turns toward him, willing him to get up and cross the room to them.

Athos pushes back his chair and stands and d’Artagnan’s breath catches in his throat. 

Athos reaches for his glass, still untouched, and without a word raises it to them in salute. Then he knocks it back in a single swallow, picks up his gloves from the table and, without a backward glance, leaves the room, closing the door softly behind him.

“What –?” D’Artagnan sits up, turning to the other two, at a complete loss.

Aramis flops back onto the bead, covering his eyes with his arm. “That’s it, then,” he groans.

Porthos shakes his head. “Let him go. If that’s what he wants, we can’t stop him.” He looks away, pressing his lips together.

“But what does he mean by that?” d’Artagnan says, his voice rising. “What does he mean by watching as he did – watching us – and everything – everything that we did?” He struggles to form his disarrayed thoughts into words. “What was that – with the glass?”

“I don’t know,” Aramis says. “Sometimes I think I understand him, but that… I just don’t know.”

“I’m going after him,” d’Artagnan says with sudden determination. “He’s not going to get away with this.” He scrambles out of the bed, disentangling himself from the sheets and from his friends’ limbs.

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” Porthos says, reaching for him, but d’Artagnan eludes him, already snatching up his breeches and shoving his legs hurriedly into them.

“Damn him,” he mutters as he dresses. “He didn’t even say anything. I can’t – I _won’t_ let him do this. He thinks he can just walk away, well he can’t. No. No, I won’t allow him to turn his back on this – on us.”

Grabbing a shirt, he knows not whose, he throws it over his head, shoves his bare feet into the nearest boots to hand, a mismatched pair, neither of which belong to him.

“Sorry,” he says, turning to Aramis and Porthos. “Sorry to leave like this.” He looks anxiously at the door. “But if we’re not to lose him entirely…”

“Go,” Aramis says, waving him toward the door. “We understand. Do what you need to do.”

“But be careful,” Porthos warns. “You know what he can be like.”

“He won’t hurt me,” d’Artagnan claims, grabbing his coat. “He wants me too much.”

He hears Aramis’ groan as he closes the door behind him. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

~*~

Once in the street he has to make a decision – the tavern or Athos’ lodgings. Will Athos want a drink or will he want to be alone? Usually d’Artagnan would have bet on the former, but tonight he decides to take a chance on Athos wanting solitude too much to give in to the siren song of wine and forgetfulness.

He runs through the streets, his progress hampered by the fact that apparently Aramis’ feet are smaller than his and Porthos’ larger, so running in the boots is neither easy nor swift. It is the second time that evening that he finds himself chasing after Athos, a metaphor he finds sadly apt. But no more, he vows. Athos will relent. D’Artagnan will give him no choice.

When he reaches the garrison he is out of breath, sweat trickling down his neck despite the chill of the night. He stops outside Athos’ door, hesitating in sudden indecision, when he hears an anguished cry from within, and, a second later, a single, violent _crack_ on the opposite side of the door – if he is not mistaken, the sound of a fist hitting wood with a great deal of force.

“Athos!” he calls, putting his shoulder to the door and heaving. It opens readily, unlocked, though Athos must have been leaning against it for he stumbles back as d’Artagnan enters and would have fallen had d’Artagnan not grabbed him by the arm.

“What are you doing here?” Athos demands, alarm etched across his features. 

“I’m making things right,” d’Artagnan says, taking Athos by the shoulders and spinning him, shoving him back up against the door. “We can’t leave it like this. You know that. You _know_ that.”

Athos stares at him, his eyes shining in the flickering candlelight, shadows chasing their way across his skin.

“I demand that you leave immediately,” he says, but it comes out almost a whisper.

“No.”

Athos grabs his wrists, but does not pull them away.

“I am not a part of whatever you have with Aramis and Porthos,” he says, and the deadly tone of his voice, the hard stare he is directing toward d’Artagnan would have made him falter on any other night, but not tonight. “I demand that you leave me out of it.”

“That’s not what you want,” d’Artagnan says with unswerving certainty. “You wouldn’t have stayed. You wouldn’t have watched.” He leans in very close. Athos inhales sharply, eyes widening. “I _saw_ you. You didn’t move, you didn’t glance away, the whole time. You can’t tell me you’re not a part of it. You were as much a part of it as the rest of us.” 

“That’s ridiculous,” Athos says. “How can you - ”

“I’m not listening to you,” d’Artagnan says, feeling brave and brazen and certain. “You sat there, and you watched everything! And then you walk out? No, I don’t think so. You do not get to turn your back on me like that. I am not giving you that option. Not any more.”

With a sense of déjà vu, d’Artagnan closes the distance between them. As before, there is a second when Athos freezes, neither accepting nor protesting, and then his mouth opens beneath d’Artagnan’s, wonderfully hot and welcoming. Athos makes a helpless, despairing sound and his hands move to d’Artagnan’s shoulders if to push him away, but after a pause during which d’Artagnan kisses him with everything he has, he instead feels Athos’ fingers slide hesitantly into his hair, then tighten. 

D’Artagnan’s body flushes first with victory, then with the searing burn of desire. He presses Athos back against the door, deepening the kiss, licking into his mouth and marveling that Athos is actually letting this happen. D’Artagnan takes Athos’ face between his hands, tilts his head slightly to bring them into perfect alignment. Athos sighs and d’Artagnan feels his mouth soften and the tension in his body ease as Athos kisses him, and it is _amazing_. His hands move restlessly from d’Artagnan’s shoulders to his waist, then up his sides, as if he doesn’t know what to do with them. He moans when d’Artagnan bites his lip, then licks over it, moans again when d’Artagnan insinuates his thigh between Athos’ legs. He rocks forward, feeling Athos’ length against his hip, works a hand down between their bodies to touch him, rock hard and hot against his palm even through his breeches. Athos’ head falls back and he groans, filling d’Artagnan with a potent and unexpected mix of want and tenderness to see Athos so undone, the iron grip that holds everything in check finally, finally giving way.

His hands are on Athos’ laces, clumsy fingers fumbling, but he gets them loose, tugs his breeches down over his hips.

“What are you –”

“Hush,” d’Artagnan says, sinking to his knees, his hands sliding down Athos’ body. The sharp intake of breath above him attests to Athos’ surprise, as does the hiss when he takes Athos in hand.

“My God,” Athos says raggedly. “You don’t have to –”

“Yes,” d’Artagnan interrupts him. “I really think I do.”

“But,” Athos stammers, “D’Artagnan – please, I can’t allow –”

D’Artagnan silences him by taking him in as deeply as he can, which is nowhere near to what Aramis had achieved. D’Artagnan, sure as he is that this is what he wants to do, is nevertheless stymied momentarily by how exactly to do it. He is not totally inexperienced, having been on the receiving end several times, and of course, most recently within the past hour. He summons memories of all the tricks that have been employed upon him in the past and manages a passable if clumsy effort by using a combination of mouth and hand. It is wet and messy and noisy, but while he knows from personal experience that those are not necessarily bad things, he does not know if they are the sort of things that Athos likes.

And Athos is not helping, remaining still and absolutely silent. A hand rests lightly on d’Artagnan’s head, but it neither pushes nor guides. D’Artagnan draws back, looking upward to see that Athos has an arm raised, the back of his hand pressed tightly to his mouth.

“Is it all right? I don’t know what I’m doing,” d’Artagnan admits. His lips feels numb, his mouth tender. “Should I –”

Athos smoothes the hand that is on d’Artagnan’s head over his hair. “It’s fine,” he says. His voice is rough and deep, and it sends a shiver through d’Artagnan. “It’s good.” He breathes audibly for a moment, then says, barely above a whisper, “I don’t want you to stop – please.”

That is all the encouragement d’Artagnan needs. He may be inexpert at this, but Athos begging him not to stop means he must be doing something right. He wraps his hand around what he can’t take into his mouth and strokes and Athos’ hand tightens in his hair. His other hand is on Athos’ hip, holding him against the door. He remembers how Aramis held his gaze when he was doing this to him, and how it made him feel, how it made everything that much more intense. He raises his eyes to find Athos already watching him. Their gazes lock and d’Artagnan shudders. He is hard again, but he has no hand free with which to touch himself and doesn’t know if he wants to anyway. What he is doing is for Athos, and Athos alone. He wants everything about it to be for him, and to take nothing for himself.

D’Artagnan drags his mouth along the underside of Athos’ cock, tongue flickering out to taste. Athos watches him with a dark, heavy gaze, panting as d’Artagnan licks over the tip, then takes him in again, as deeply as he can. Athos mouth is slack, his face open. D’Artagnan has never seen him look like that – younger, almost innocent; like a man who has not suffered years of pain and self-denial and isolation. Then Athos’ eyes close and his head tips back. D’Artagnan feels his thighs tremble, his muscles tensing before he loses the battle with his self-control and thrusts, pushing in as far as d’Artagnan’s hand around him allows, and then again, and again.

“Mother of God,” Athos grits out, his hand tightening painfully in d’Artagnan’s hair. D’Artagnan moans, stunned that he can want this, that he can want more. He takes Athos in a bit deeper, nearly choking but even that arouses him. Tears leak from the corners of d’Artagnan’s eyes, saliva runs down his chin, he is so hard it hurts, and he doesn’t know if he’s ever felt so out of control in his life. Athos is _using_ him, and he loves it.

There’s a strangled wail from above him and the muscles of Athos’ hips beneath d’Artagnan’s hand go rigid, his body bowing off the wall, as he pulses in deep contractions into d’Artagnan’s mouth, warm and bitter and salty.

D’Artagnan squeezes his eyes shut and does his best to swallow, but some of Athos’ release escapes nonetheless, adding to the mess dripping down his chin. His nose is running and his eyes sting, but there is satisfaction nonetheless, and a desperate, aching arousal. 

When Athos slumps back against the wall and the hand in d’Artagnan’s hair loosens and draws away, he pulls off, coughing and gasping for breath.

Athos slides down the wall, sitting on the floor in front of him in an untidy heap. He looks wasted, his clothes askew, his hair going every which way, his skin flushed and shiny with sweat. He takes d’Artagnan’s face in his hands, thumbs rubbing lightly over his slick mouth, tracing the shape of his lips. “Your beautiful mouth,” Athos says with a breathless sigh, “drives me to distraction.” He leans forward and puts his mouth against d’Artagnan’s despite the mess, kissing him lightly, then wiping his chin with the cuff of his sleeve.

“ _You_ drive me to distraction,” Athos continues. “I think maybe you have since I met you, and I just didn’t realize… I didn’t _want_ to realize.”

“Mmm,” d’Artagnan hums in agreement, although he had not realized his own feelings any better.

D’Artagnan parts his lips, tongue flicking out to coax one of Athos’ thumbs inside, sucking on it. Athos groans and it sends a shivery thrill through him, straight to his cock. His mind races, imagining all the things that they can do now, all the many ways that they can fit together.

Athos withdraws his thumb, gestures hesitantly to d’Artagnan’s crotch. “Shall I?”

“Athos.” It comes out a hoarse whisper. D’Artagnan clears his throat. Athos is watching him closely, with some indefinable expression in his eyes. “I’d like you to,” d’Artagnan says, “but only if you truly want to.”

Athos reaches out and takes d’Artagnan’s hand, drawing him closer. He inches forward on his knees, then, when Athos tugs on his hand again, carefully straddles his lap, moving slowly to give Athos every opportunity to change his mind. Athos doesn’t look at him, but devotes himself with dedicated concentration to carefully unbuttoning and then loosening d’Artagnan’s laces, his hands steady even as d’Artagnan trembles in anticipation. As his laces part, d’Artagnan cannot stifle a sigh of relief at release from the confinement of his breeches. There is a pause, Athos’ hand hovering in front of him, and then he unties the laces of his smalls, freeing d’Artagnan’s erection.

D’Artagnan holds his breath, waiting. Athos seems frozen in indecision, his eyes lighting on d’Artagnan’s cock, then flicking away, then drawn back as if against his will.

“You don’t have to,” d’Artagnan says, starting to move away.

Athos gives him a small, sly smile and says, “I really think I do,” and wraps his hand around him. Athos’ other hand goes around d’Artagnan’s shoulders, pulling him close. He opens his mouth against Athos’ throat and breathes him in, the scents of sex and sweat, leather and wine. His hand is strong and callused, his rhythm too rough, too fast, his grip slightly awkward, but it matters not a bit. What matters is that it is Athos’ hand upon him, Athos’ scent surrounding him, Athos’ body warm against him. D’Artagnan is seized with unbearable pleasure, everything going white behind his eyes as he cries out against Athos’ neck, coming shatteringly and completely into Athos’ waiting hand. 

After a few moments Athos nudges him as he leans bonelessly on his shoulder. “It’s late,” he says. “Let’s go to bed.” 

D’Artagnan lifts his head. “To bed? Me? With you?”

Athos gives him a look as if he is being particularly dim-witted, and perhaps he is. It is very late or, more accurately, very early, probably only few hours before dawn, and d’Artagnan is very tired. It has been a long, strange night filled with terrible and wonderful things and he feels that every bit of energy has been sapped from him.

Athos helps him stand and they stagger to the bed. D’Artagnan collapses onto it, felled by exhaustion, managing with great effort to tug off Porthos’ and Aramis’ boots and toss them aside before surrendering to the lure of the mattress, narrow and lumpy as it is. 

He is conscious of Athos moving around the room, blowing out candles, before climbing into bed beside him. He reaches out a tentative hand, laying it on Athos’ stomach, not certain that such contact will be allowed. But after a moment it is clear that Athos is not going to remove it, and d’Artagnan relaxes by degrees. 

Athos has stripped down to his underclothes. D’Artagnan is still in shirt and breeches, but has no energy to undress. He is dimly aware of shifting to lay his head on Athos’ shoulder and, a moment later, of being jostled as an arm slides under and around him. He is so comfortable, warm against Athos’ body, secure within his encircling arm, wasted and supremely spent. 

He knows there are things between them that will not be easy, and that the morrow might be one of those not-easy things, and that he must determine what to do about Porthos and Aramis and his feelings for them – all of which he suspects cannot help but be extremely complicated. But he can’t think about any of it at the moment in his current state of fatigue, so there’s no point in worrying, and with a quiet sigh, he sinks into sleep.

~*~

D’Artagnan wakes to a brutal pounding in his head. He scrambles to a seated position, still mostly asleep, and takes in his surroundings, disoriented. Bright sunlight streams through the crooked slats of the shutters. He is alone in the room, and the pounding is not actually inside his head; it comes from the door, along with a voice shouting, “Athos! Are you decent?”

D’Artagnan stumbles to his feet, checking to be sure his laces are tied, which they aren’t. He hurriedly remedies that and tucks in his shirt, combing fingers through hopelessly snarled hair as he makes his way to the door. He opens it to find both Porthos and Aramis standing in the corridor.

“’Bout time,” Porthos starts, then his eyebrows rise as he takes in d’Artagnan, barely dressed and still blinking sleep from his eyes. A slow smile graces his features, and he turns to Aramis, giving him a significant look. For his part, Aramis cocks his head, eyebrows high, a clear question on his face.

D’Artagnan feels himself flush at their scrutiny, at the obvious conclusion to be drawn by his presence in Athos’ rooms, and at the memory, visceral and far too clear given his yet-befuddled state of mind, of the night before and the feel of both Porthos’ and Aramis’ hands, their _mouths_ on him, and of all the things they did to each other.

“Athos isn’t here,” d’Artagnan blurts, feeling his color deepen as his friends look at him with amused curiosity.

“And yet you are,” Porthos says, coming in and shutting the door behind them. “I assume that means that you managed to track him down last night.”

Aramis makes a thoughtful hum. “And where is Athos now?”

“I don’t know,” d’Artagnan admits. “I only just woke up, thanks to you trying to break down the door.”

“It _is_ after midday, you know,” Porthos says.

“It is?” D’Artagnan panics for a moment, before remembering it is Sunday and he isn’t required to report for duty until evening. 

“Wherever he’s gone, it’s not out for a walk. He’s taken his kit.” Aramis turns from the armoire he’d been poking around in. 

“You know what he’s doing,” Porthos says with an exasperated sigh. “He’s done a runner rather than have to face us in the light of day.” He turns to d’Artagnan. “What happened between the two of you last night?”

“Uhh.” D’Artagnan looks back and forth between them, torn between wanting to confess everything and the certainty that Athos would not want him to. “I don’t think I should – that is, I probably shouldn’t…”

“Was it amicable?” Aramis saves him by asking, then smiling as d’Artagnan flushes again. “Was it _more_ than amicable?”

D’Artagnan ducks his head. “It was... _exceedingly_ amicable.” 

Aramis chuckles, his hands on his hips. “You are far too charming for your own good.” He looks at Porthos. “Isn’t he? Have you ever seen anything as adorable?” Aramis comes to stand before d’Artagnan, one firm hand going to the back of his neck. “Come here. I haven’t greeted you properly today.”

Aramis’ mouth is warm and sweet and so easy to get lost in, and kissing him already feels like coming home. D’Artagnan gives himself up to it with a sigh, as the worry and chill of waking up alone melts away in Aramis’ embrace.

Aramis draws back. “My dear, I am so sorry about last night.” He glances at Porthos as if for reassurance, then goes on. “Porthos has impressed upon me that I was careless with you, pushing you on Athos, as I did. I did not fully consider how Athos might react to such a sudden approach.” Aramis frowns, then sighs in frustration. “It just seemed like such an obvious and perfect solution. If Athos was not such a stubborn idiot, then I am certain that everything –” Porthos clears his throat meaningfully, and Aramis breaks off, chastened. “Yes, well. The point being that I did not fully think things through,” _“As usual”,_ Porthos mutters, “and I am sorry that you were put in an awkward position.”

“ _And_ ,” Porthos prompts.

Aramis rolls his eyes, but continues. “And that your friendship with Athos was jeopardized. That our… confederation was jeopardized.”

“It’s not your fault,” d’Artagnan says. “It was my choice to act upon your suggestion.” He shrugs. “And you were right, after all. He does… want me.”

“Of course he does.” Aramis takes him by the shoulders, leaning in to press a kiss to his forehead. “How could he not?”

“If all was well between you and Athos last night,” Porthos says, “then even if he has run off like a scared little girl, we have something to work with.”

“Are you sure he’s not just on patrol?” d’Artagnan asks. “Maybe he had to report in.”

But Aramis shakes his head. “I think not. He’s taken a spare set of clothes, otherwise I’d just assume he was on a bender. But maybe he’ll think better of it once his head clears, and come back to us of his own accord. If he insists on making us hunt him down, I will _not_ be happy about it.”

“I don’t like the thought of him off somewhere on his own,” Porthos says. “Especially not when he’s distracted.”

“Athos can look after himself,” Aramis says. “Give him some time to cool off or calm down or whatever it is he needs to do.”

“Fine, but if he doesn’t show up by tomorrow, we’ll track him down.”

“Agreed,” Aramis says.

“Agreed,” d’Artagnan echoes. Athos is without doubt his own man, with the right to go where he pleases without asking their permission. It is dispiriting though, to be run out on after such a night, one that has turned d’Artagnan’s – and, he is certain, Athos’ – world upside down. 

“At least we will not have to hunt you down,” Porthos says, punching d’Artagnan in the arm. “You ran off with our boots!”

“And I would very much like mine back.” Aramis sits on the room’s one chair, removing one of d’Artagnan’s boots.

“And mine,” adds Porthos, trading seats with Aramis, and holding up his foot. Aramis has to struggle quite strenuously to get d’Artagnan’s other boot free. “Ah, that’s better,” says Porthos, pulling his own boot back on after locating it beneath Athos’ bed.

Aramis, also shod once again in his own footwear, stands. “Well, we cannot do anything about our missing fourth at the moment,” he states, “But we can at least find some coffee and breakfast. Shall we?” He gestures toward the door.

“Oh,” d’Artagnan says awkwardly, suddenly uncertain of his place now that he knows the true nature of Aramis’ and Porthos’ friendship. “I can – that is, I needn’t accompany – if you’d like to be alone –”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Aramis says impatiently. “It’s just breakfast.”

Porthos lays a hand on Aramis’ arm, then steps up to d’Artagnan, his hand going to d’Artagnan’s face, cradling his cheek. “What you’re thinking,” he says softly. “Forget about it. It’s not like that. Aramis and I want you with us. We want Athos with us. As comrades, as friends, as more than that. There’s enough room for us all here, I promise you.” He leans in and kisses d’Artagnan, gently but firmly, a more restrained kiss than any they’d shared the night before, but still one that makes d’Artagnan try to follow when Porthos pulls back.

Porthos smiles. “Perhaps later, sweetheart. We have the afternoon free, after all.”

D’Artagnan grins, uncertainly at first, then more broadly when Aramis lays an arm over his shoulders and squeezes, kissing him on the temple. “Listen to Porthos,” he advises. “Once in a while the man actually knows what he’s talking about.”

He laughs at Porthos’ scowl, steering d’Artagnan through the door ahead of them. They walk out into the sunshine of the courtyard, the two of them bickering amiably. Striding beside them up the bustling street, d’Artagnan lets himself be drawn into their conversation, rather astonished at how normal it is, almost – _almost_ – as if nothing has changed. He purposely puts thoughts of Athos, and where he might be and what he might be doing, and why he has disappeared, aside for a little while to enjoy the company of his friends and the promise of an interesting afternoon.

~*~

But the promise of the afternoon never is realized. A messenger arrives at the café just as they are finishing their coffee with an urgent summons for Porthos and Aramis. They are needed on the King’s business, and hurry away to meet with Treville, promising to let d’Artagnan know as soon as they are free. As it turns out, that isn’t until the afternoon of the next day, since they are sent to Fontainebleau with some sort of pressing missive, the nature of which they can not divulge.

“I could tell you,” Porthos says when he and Aramis encounter d’Artagnan in the yard of the garrison, hooking an arm around d’Artagnan’s throat and rubbing his knuckles on the top of his head. “But then I’d have to kill you.”

“He’s still missing,” d’Artagnan says, once he has extricated himself from Porthos’ grasp. “Not a sign of him, and no one knows where he’s gone. The Captain is _not_ happy, believe me.”

“I can imagine.” Aramis seats himself at their favorite table and he and Porthos commence shoveling beef stew into their mouths as if they haven’t eaten in weeks. “If it was anyone but Athos…”

“Even so, the Captain will have to act soon,” Porthos says. “He can only make an exception for him for so long.”

“I think I know where he might be,” ventures d’Artagnan.

“Oh?” asks Porthos between bites. “Where’s that?”

“What would he do if he felt that he’d lost sight of who he is?” d’Artagnan asks. He waits, but they just watch him expectantly, waiting for the answer. “He’d go back to the beginning. To where he’s from.”

“La Fere,” Aramis says. “Of course.”

“Treville says that wherever he is, we’re to fetch him back,” d’Artagnan informs them. “Preferably before someone notices he’s missing and he has to have him shot for desertion.”

Porthos groans. “Shit, we just got back.”

Aramis gives him a look. “It’s _Athos_.”

“I know, I know,” Porthos grumbles. “But we’ve been riding for the past two days. The last thing I want to do is get back up on a damned horse.”

~ *~

Unlike his comrades, d’Artagnan is not sorry to leave the city behind. He has not been outside its gates in weeks, and the change of scenery is refreshing. The day is fine, his horse has a lightness in her step, and they are going to find Athos, and once they do, he will realize that all is well and will return with them and he and d’Artagnan can take up where they left off. Well, he is not sure about that last bit, but they will figure it out. Possibly – hopefully – with some help from Aramis and Porthos.

Aramis sets a steady pace, quick enough to make good time, but mindful of the horses. As they leave the outskirts of the city behind, the traffic on the road thins, the breeze grows fresh, and birdsong fills the air around them. D’Artagnan inhales deeply, reminded of his home in Lupiac, the broad meadows and tidy farms, the peaceful quietude of his boyhood years. The certainty of knowing that each day will be much like the one before it, and the one before that, and that many more such days stretch out before him in the years to come.

The unrelenting boredom of it. The monotony that made him feel that his soul was dying.

It all changed with the death of his father, and his headlong rush to revenge himself upon Athos, which led him to Paris and, somehow, into the life he now lives.

He would trade it all to bring his father back. He would go back to the stultifying life of a farmer without a word of complaint. But there is nothing else that could draw him back into that life, now that he has tasted freedom.

At some point Paris has become his home. Not just Paris itself, but the Paris he’s shared with Athos and Porthos and Aramis. He cannot imagine the city without them, other than as a cold and lonely place. He cannot, in fact, imagine his life without them. It would certainly be cold and lonely as well.

As the road traverses a flat, open plain Aramis lets his horse canter out ahead of them, giving d’Artagnan an opportunity to broach a question to Porthos that has troubled him for the past two days.

“Porthos,” he begins. “Do you know what Athos meant the other night when he brought up that ‘indiscretion’ of Aramis’?”

Porthos shrugs carelessly, but something discontented flickers in his eyes. “Aramis has a lot of indiscretions. I can’t tell you which of them Athos was talking about.”

“He hasn’t told you?” D’Artagnan hates to admit it, but he does find it comforting to know that he is not the only one who isn’t privy to that particular confidence.

Porthos shakes his head, his dark eyes trained on Aramis’ straight back as he precedes them. “No. No, he has not.”

“But why would Aramis keep it secret from you?” 

“We all have secrets, d’Artagnan. Aramis has more than most people, but his tend to come to light sooner or later. He’ll tell me when he’s ready. And if he doesn’t, I’ll probably find out about it one way or another anyway.”

“It sounded dangerous.”

Porthos chuckles. “Most of Aramis’ secrets are.”

~*~

They find Athos seated atop a small hill with a view of the burnt out husk that had been his ancestral home. They make no effort to conceal their approach and Athos does not turn around, despite the jangling of bridles and the snorting of the horses. He sits with his back to them, elbows resting on his knees, staring down at the house.

They dismount, looping the reins around the spindly branches of a convenient bush, and walk over to where he sits, standing in row beside him for a moment, contemplating the wreck of a house.

“It was a beautiful house,” Aramis observes.

After a beat Athos speaks. “Was it?”

“You know very well that it was.”

“I suppose so,” Athos admits. “So much of the beauty there was false. I can no longer remember what it was like, before it was tainted.”

D’Artagnan takes a seat beside him. Aramis and Porthos wander a little apart, giving them some privacy. “What are you doing here, Athos?”

Athos shrugs. “I didn’t plan to come here. I had to go somewhere. This seemed like as good a place as any to contemplate my sins.”

“Your sins,” d’Artagnan repeats quietly. “Is that what you think I am?”

“I don’t know. No.” Athos sighs. “Maybe.” He glances at d’Artagnan, then looks at the ground between his feet. “You should not let yourself care for me, d’Artagnan.”

“What you mean is that you are afraid to let yourself care too much for me.” Athos looks at him. “Aramis would say that it doesn’t have to mean anything, that it can just be about having a bit of fun.”

Athos looks beyond him, to where Aramis and Porthos are standing. D’Artagnan turns as Aramis’ arm goes around Porthos’ waist and he leans against him. Porthos kisses the top of his head, then says something inaudible that makes Aramis laugh.

He turns back to see Athos’ mouth crooked sideways in something that is almost a smile. “Aramis may say that, but he would be lying.”

D’Artagnan sighs in frustration. “Fine. It means something. And is that so terrible?”

“Yes,” Athos says. “It is terrible. And terrifying.” D’Artagnan watches Athos’ profile as he stares toward the house, though he’s certain that Athos isn’t actually seeing it. His jaw clenches, his brows lower in a frown, and then he says, as if it is being dragged out of him, “I cannot bear to lose you.”

“But you won’t,” d’Artagnan cries. “You won’t, Athos. You must believe me. We – I care for you too much to let that happen.”

“I know,” Athos says. “And I am weak. I cannot help craving your friendship.” He looks up, meeting d’Artagnan’s eyes. “I cannot resist, but I should. I should be able to.”

D’Artagnan looks toward Aramis and Porthos, silently pleading for assistance and finds them both watching, his raised voice having caught their attention. Aramis raises his brows in a question and at d’Artagnan’s rather desperate nod he comes over and sits beside Athos, Porthos following and taking a seat next to Aramis.

“My friend,” Aramis says, putting an arm around Athos’ shoulders and leaning in close, as if he does not notice Athos stiffening under his touch. “As usual, you are torturing yourself needlessly. D’Artagnan is quite right, we already care for you, as you do for us. We are brothers in everything but name, and I know you would not truly wish it any other way.”

“Aramis,” Athos says, turning to him, his voice tight. “Brothers would never do as we have done. It is a _sin_.”

“Love, freely given, is not a sin, my dear,” Aramis says, stroking the back of Athos’ neck. “And love, gladly accepted, isn’t either. Nothing you say will ever convince me otherwise.”

“What Aramis and I do isn’t wrong,” Porthos adds. “Did it feel wrong, when you watched us together?”

Athos buries his face in his hands. “No, God help me. No, it did not feel wrong. It was beautiful. I wanted –” He draws a shaky breath. “I wanted to join you. But, no. It is impossible.”

“Does this feel wrong?” Aramis asks. He leans closer, turning Athos to him and placing a gentle kiss on his lips. He draws back, watching Athos closely. D’Artagnan cannot see his face, only Aramis’, and the tender look in his eyes. He can only hear Athos’ choked voice when he says, “No. It should, but it doesn’t.”

Aramis holds Athos near and looks him in the eyes. “There is nothing – _nothing_ – that you can do that will make us stop loving you.”

“I don’t deserve your love,” Athos says.

“Who is to say who deserves to be loved?” Aramis says softly. “Only God knows that. Love is a gift, Athos. Do not refuse it.”

Athos sighs and leans his forehead on Aramis’ shoulder. Aramis reaches up and runs his fingers through Athos’ hair, then kisses his temple. “The only question,” he whispers into Athos’ hair, “is are you brave enough to accept that love, and can you allow yourself to return it?”

“I don’t know,” Athos says, straightening. “I fear the part of me that could love has been dead for a long time.”

“It’s not dead,” Porthos says. “I’ve seen it. We all have.”

He holds Athos’ gaze, not an iota of doubt in his expression, and nods at him encouragingly.

“I can – I can try,” Athos says. “It isn’t enough… but it’s the best I can do.”

For a moment, no one speaks.

“Well, that’s good enough for me,” Porthos says, reaching around Aramis to clap Athos on the shoulder.

Athos looks up at him, something hopeful in his expression. With a low curse, Porthos grabs Athos, ignoring his startled expression and bringing their mouths together in a fast, hard kiss.

They break apart and Porthos smiles at him, and then he throws his head back and laughs, and after a moment Athos smiles hesitantly, and d’Artagnan gives a silent prayer of thanks for his friends, because putting a smile on Athos’ face is no small thing and he will always be grateful to anyone who can manage it.

“D’Artagnan.” Athos turns to him. “I must beg your forgiveness. I should not have left as I did.”

“Never mind,” D’Artagnan says. “It’s in the past. And I forgive you, if that will make you feel better.”

It seems a simple matter to bring their mouths together, to kiss Athos as he has wished to from the first moment he saw him sitting there alone. Athos makes a little noise of surprise, then kisses him back, a bit restrained perhaps, but it is sweet, nonetheless. D’Artagnan pulls back and they stare at each other, and he allows himself for the first time in days to imagine that things might just work themselves out, and in a way far different – and far better – than he could have foreseen.

Evidently, Athos’ thoughts have followed a similar track, for he is looking doubtfully between the three of them. “I don’t even know how this works.”

“Neither do we.” Porthos grins, warm and affectionate. “We’ll have to just make it up as we go along.”

“Too true, I’m afraid. There are no rules to follow,” Aramis says unapologetically. “But we’ll figure it out.”

“Very well,” Athos says. “I will put myself in your hands, and trust you to guide me.”

The look that passes between Aramis and Porthos is not subtle. Athos blushes crimson, which d’Artagnan finds incredibly charming.

“The Captain has ordered us to bring you back so he doesn’t have to have you shot,” Porthos says. He raises an eyebrow, giving Athos a stern look. “Not that you don’t deserve it.”

Athos quirks his lip. “I am quite sure that I do.”

“No doubt,” Aramis agrees. “Though it would be a tragic waste and very messy. So we thought we’d try to avoid it if we can. My friends, shall we go?”

D’Artagnan stands and offers a hand to Athos, who takes it, allowing himself to be pulled to his feet. For a moment he contemplates the blackened shell of the house, then turns to d’Artagnan. 

“All right,” Athos says. “Let’s go home.”

They mount and turn their horses towards Paris. Night is coming on, and the first star of the evening blinks in the sky, even as the sun still shines.

Just as darkness falls they pass an inn, and by unspoken consent they turn in at the gate. The windows glow with candlelight, wisps of smoke rise from the chimney and the scent of roasted meat makes d’Artagnan’s mouth water.

They will eat, and sit together before the fire with a bottle of wine, and when they can no longer bear the wait, they will go up the stairs, and down the dark hall to the single room they will have rented, and they will close the door behind them and begin to discover how they fit together now.


End file.
